


The Poison in the Poke

by sevenpercent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Now complete, POV First Person, Podfic Available, Slash, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, recently discharged ex-Army doctor working at Saint Barts A & E, finds himself immersed in a murder investigation with a strange consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, and a Scotland Yard DI Lestrade.  His life changes dramatically as he agrees to assist the detective in unraveling a murder that happened in the walls of Saint Barts hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strange Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is a case fic, it also has some bromance, slash, relationship stuff, M/M. So if that concerns you, consider yourself warned.  
> I also tried to make this as accurate as I could. If you find anything that is inaccurate and/or could be improved, please let me know. Google and other research come in handy, but they can only do so much compared with intimate personal knowledge of places, etc. I'll gladly update and change it!  
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Any con crit is appreciated! And comments. I'd love to hear from you.

Never in my life, as an adult at least, had I ever been so insulted as I was that morning.

“He doesn’t know anything!” Ejaculated the tall lanky man in the black well fitted bespoke suit and Belstaff coat, as he threw his arms up in the air. “He is a _locum_ doctor!”

I looked at the man, with his pale skin a dramatic contrast to his dark curly black hair, his eyes a dazzling pale blue gray, and the most angular features I had ever seen, yet somehow combined in a most pleasing manner. This man was about as rude a person I had ever encountered. I had been underestimated as a soldier, which was only natural, as I did not cut an imposing figure. I was only five foot eight, if I stood straight. People told me I had a kind face, boy-like, and I was easy to talk with, disarming in fact, and mild in manner. So people never guessed that I possessed the physical strength and fortitude that I had gained as a soldier. I had grown used to that, and had in fact, used that to my advantage many times when confronted by an adversary. Being questioned about my physical ability was something that had happened many times, a mistake never repeated by anyone who made it, but no one had ever insulted my abilities as a surgeon, especially someone who never observed them. I was a damn good doctor.

“I beg your pardon?!” I retorted. “Just because I’m a locum doctor doesn’t mean that I’m an idiot. I don’t know who you are, but-“

He interrupted me, a smile starting to form on his lips. “No, no, don’t take it that way. Almost everyone is.” What?! As if that would pacify me. How infuriating! “And my name is Sherlock Holmes.” He said it like it was supposed to impress me, which of course it didn’t. I just looked at him, a bit unsure as to what I was doing there, and what I was supposed to say. I looked over at his colleague, also in a dark suit, but a bit older and more distinguished looking, with silver blond hair, and an air of someone who is used to being in charge. He was looking at the man with a look of disbelief on his face, then just shook his head and looked down at his shoes. At least he had the grace to look a bit embarrassed.

I crossed my arms over my chest, and gave him the best Captain’s glare that I could muster. Many men had been silenced by that look, some had even cowered. But this Holmes fellow, with the strange name, merely tilted his head slightly to one side and proceeded to take me apart with his eyes. There was no other description for it. It felt like x-ray vision was peering through every part of me, and finding my secrets. It was very disconcerting. I started to fidget a bit, trying to find an outlet for my discomfort. Then, to complete the omniscient impression, he calmly turned and walked away while he started to speak.

“I merely meant that you wouldn’t be able to give me much information about the personal life of the victim. You are a locum doctor, so you haven’t been here long. But, as you are an Army doctor, recently discharged from Afghastan or Iraq, which was it by the way? Oh, never mind, it’s not important; you may have some valuable insights as an outsider who has been trained to observe his environment very carefully. I have some questions to ask you, but I won’t keep you long as I see that you live a fair distance from here, with a transfer, no two transfers on the tube, and still need to go to Tescos today before returning to your overpriced and undersized bedsit.” He spoke so quickly that the words barely registered.

I stared at him in amazement, mute for a moment. Then the words spilled out. “How could you possibly know all that? Did Dr. Weaver tell you that? No wait a minute, he doesn’t know about Tescos, or my bedsit… So, em, how did you know all of that?”

The man turned and looked at me, a look of triumph on his face. “I did not know. I observed.”

“How?”

“That you are a locum doctor is obvious, your nametag is in a plastic sleeve, while the other staff have laminated name badges. You may have just lost yours and are waiting for a replacement, but the key fob badge issued to you says “visitor” on it, so you are new or a locum doctor. Obvious. You hold your left arm stiffly and there is an asymmetry to your shoulders, so wounded, a fresh wound as you still protect and favor it in an unnatural way. Then there’s your haircut and your attitude, clearly military, along with your tan, which does not extend beyond your sleeve, so you were somewhere sunny, but not on vacation, not sun tanning. You are a military doctor, recently discharged from active service, from a location with a lot of sun, Afghanastan or Iraq.” He stopped to watch me for a moment to see if I was following. Satisfied that I was, he continued.

“I can tell by the state you your shoes and pant legs that you came by the tube, that you transferred twice is evident by the scuffs on your inner left heel. Then there is Tescos, simple. You have a shopping list in your shirt pocket on the back of a Tescos receipt.” He looked triumphant.

“And the bedsit?”

“You are recently discharged, unemployed, and work where ever you are able to find some work, of course your bedsit is overpriced and undersized.”

“Amazing. Absolutely incredible.” I was staring at him like a hero worshiping teenager, and I felt some color rising in my face. The man beamed at me. I had to turn to hide my blushing.

“All right Sherlock, lets get on with it.” The other man prodded. Sherlock glared at him.

I still didn’t know who these men were, or why they wanted to speak to me. Being a doctor usually meant that your time was at a premium, especially at A & E. It was rare to have time for small talk or idle gossip, so I cut in. “Em, not to be rude, but, why do you want to see me?”

The older man answered this time. “This past week, Monday, there was a young man who worked here, who was admitted to A & E after collapsing at his desk. You were the doctor who attended to him?”

Rifling through my memories, I quickly recalled. “Oh, right. Chambers, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t my place to speak to anyone about other’s medical history or problems, so I pushed back. “You’re with the police then?”

Mr. Holmes' face screwed up in disgust and he said “no” just as the other man exclaimed “yes.” I looked back and forth between them before adding “Do you need some time to get your stories straight?” I was only half joking. Then for good measure, I added “And who gave you permission to come in here and talk with me?” Surely the administration of the hospital did not wish me to discuss patient history with strangers.

The younger man huffed his impatience and turned his back on me while the grey haired man strode forward to address me. “My apologies, I should have introduced myself before we started. I am DI Gregory Lestrade with Scotland Yard, and this is my… colleague, Sherlock Holmes. He is a consultant for us.” Lestrade rubbed his palms together, and looked between Mr. Holmes and myself. “We are investigating the death of Alistair Chambers. We have already spoken with Dylan Sullivan, he’s top man here, as you know, and he gave us permission to speak with anyone who we need to.” I thought I heard Sherlock Holmes mutter the work “idiot’ under his breath, but I may have been mistaken. “Doctor…” he pulled a small notebook out of his pocketed and looked down at it, “Alex Weaver, Chief of Staff for A & E, told us that you were working that day.” He closed his notebook and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.

“Em… yes. That was last Monday, three days ago.” I looked back and forth between the two men. “And if Scotland Yard is investigating, that means the death wasn’t natural…” I waited for confirmation, but it appeared that it was not coming. Both men just looked at me, not bashful in maintaining eye contact.

“What can you tell us about Chambers?” Lestrade enquired.

“Really not much. I never met him before… before Monday.” I scratched my head. I’m not sure I would have even remembered it had happened Monday had they not reminded me of that at the beginning of the interview. The days on emergency duty all seemed to blend together after a while.

“Okay… tell us about Monday then, the relevant parts with Chambers.”

I thought back to Monday, which somehow seemed a lot longer ago than four days. My shift that day started at 2 PM, missing the Monday morning rush that invariably came after people started to recover from their weekend activities. The day had been fairly calm, as Monday’s go, until a gurney came flying into the triage area with a non-responsive young man on it. An older gentleman, mildly obese, sweating and panting from the exertion, had pushed the gurney from some office space on the floor below, shattering the temporary calm.

“Alistair Chambers presented to me at approximately 4:05 PM unresponsive. I was told he was a medical clerk on the floor below us and had been working. He was found by his boss, collapsed by his desk, and his boss summoned a gurney and rolled him up here as quickly as he could.”

“Chambers had no pulse, no respirations, no blood pressure, no reflexes, and EKG picked up no electrical activity- he was clinically dead. But he hadn’t been dead for long.”

“How do you know that?” It was Holmes asking.

“No evidence of rigor. Body temperature was still normal; he wasn’t dead long enough to begin to cool down yet. And em...” Most people didn’t want to hear this detail, “although he had evacuated his bladder, the liquid was still warm.” The dark haired consultant nodded. I continued, “So I inserted an endotracheal tube, a breathing tube, and jumped on the gurney to initiate CPR.”

“Sorry, you _jumped on_ the gurney?” Lestrade’s brows were knit together, with the worry lines of his forehead clearly accentuated. Of course he’d probably seen many doctors and paramedics administer CPR.

“A bit unconventional, I admit, but since I was shot, my shoulder gives me fits if I strain it too hard. It’s easier for me to straddle my patient, unless they are on the ground of course, to give CPR. It gives me better leverage and keeps my shoulder from fatiguing too quickly.” The man nodded at me, his signal for me to continue my statement.

“We attempted to resuscitate, shocked him several times, but there was no response.” I took a deep breath. Even though I’d tried to revive many patients, the ones that were the most difficult were the personal ones. I didn’t know this chap, but everyone else around me did, so the atmosphere in the A & E had been charged with emotion. I took a deep breath and allowed the sensation to fade.

“Emm… not much else to tell. I’d say he was in his mid twenties. No odor of alcohol or toxins on his breath. No visible track marks or other injection marks seen. No petechiae on the sclera, or bruising around the throat; the hyoid was intact, so strangulation was unlikely. No visible bruising or evidence of trauma of any sort… He was awfully young for heart problems, but that was what I was left with, maybe congenital heart defect? Or toxin?” I was used to doing rounds, where even negative results were significant, and completeness was expected. It was natural to report to these non-medical detectives in the same manner.

“I haven’t seen the post mortem report yet.” I lamented.

Holmes asked, “Do you normally request the autopsy reports on patients you see?”

I smiled meekly. “Always. I want to see what I missed. I like to think it is to improve, so I know what look for the next time. A way to check my work, if you will. But maybe it’s more of a private penance. I tend to dwell on the ones that I didn’t save.” It was the very critically ill ones that I tended to remember, the ones where a single decision that I made could be the difference between a favorable or unfavorable outcome, between life and death.

There was an awkward silence for a moment before I continued. “But, since you are here,” I was speaking to Lestrade, and broadening my use of the term “you” to include Scotland Yard as a whole, “it means that I _did_ miss something, that you are investigating this as a homicide. It must be an important case if you are bringing a consultant in from the start.” The corner of Holmes mouth turned up a bit at this.

Lestrade answered, “We haven’t concluded for certain that it _is_ a homicide, just that it looks a bit suspicious… the pathologist has agreed to give us a few days to investigate before she releases her conclusions.”

“Suspicious? What about it is suspicious? Something must have been found on autopsy, but not conclusive enough at this point to rule it a homicide.” I was thinking out loud.

“That is just it.” Lestrade was relaxing a bit. “Just as you indicated with your exam, the autopsy was clean. No heart defects, lungs were normal, no abnormalities seen on any of the organs. The tox screens came back clean. The blood tests, CBC, chemistry panel, that sort of thing, all normal. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a poison, but if there was one, it’s an unusual one. Nothing found in the stomach. Nothing abnormal, that is. Doctor Hooper, the pathologist, said the man was in good shape. She couldn’t come up with a clear cause of death.”

“But you don’t investigate every death with an unclear cause. Why this one?”

Lestrade didn’t say anything. Holmes had been pacing back and forth, his fingers tented in front of his chin. He stopped and looked at me. “I was engaged to investigate it by a private individual. In this case, it is more like the Yard is assisting me.”

“We are working together.” Lestrade corrected him pointedly.

Holmes cocked an eyebrow at him and looked a bit amused. “As you wish.”

There was silence in the room for a good thirty seconds. As I was still on the clock, and who knows what had come through the door while I was sequestered with these two men, I was ready to ask to leave and return to my duties, when Holmes continued.

“From what we have learned so far, if you are to believe it, young Chambers was loved by everyone.” The last phrase was said in an almost mocking sing song voice. “He’d been employed as a medical clerk here for only a couple of months, having worked at University Hospital prior to that. His boss spoke highly of him. His co-workers said he was hard working and quiet. He had a new girlfriend, a medical transcriptionist. An only child, father deceased, mother a society lady. She was a bit disappointed in his career choice. She’d have preferred a doctor. Public school. Well off. No known enemies, if you are to believe what people say.” He obviously did not. “It’s all a bit too convenient.”

“Or you like to see a complicated murder conspiracy where there is none.” Lestrade was smiling, obviously poking fun at his... how did he describe Holmes? His colleague?

Holmes didn’t smile back, but rather returned to his thoughtful pose, his hands were steepled in front of his chin.

It sounded like an impossible puzzle to me. I wasn’t convinced that it was murder, or foul play. The man was well liked. There was no evidence from the post mortem indicating any sinister interference. But nothing to indicate what the cause of death was. However, in medicine, that is not completely abnormal. There are often times when one has to make their best educated guess. There may be a paucity of signs, or too many to have to select one single cause from. Or often, there is an additive effect, where one abnormality by itself would cause little or no harm, but piled on top of several more minor conditions the body becomes overwhelmed. Just because we mere humans couldn’t identify it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. So, as a doctor, you have to be comfortable with the term “I don’t know” or you’d either drive yourself crazy trying to manufacture a plausible explanation, or drive yourself out of the profession thinking you were not intelligent enough to compete with the others around you who apparently “knew” everything.

I suddenly realized, by a sort of sixth sense, that I was once again the subject of an intense visual exam. My eyes went to the tall angular man, and indeed his eyes were fastened onto mine. This time he was not scanning my entire body, just my face, but the feeling was no less trenchant. I had learned in the military how to hold a gaze, unblinkingly, how to not back down or give in, in a silent confirmation of my physical strength. However, I had the feeling that those eyes were not just holding my gaze, but were seeing and reading things about me that were stored deep inside. Looking back, it is odd that it didn’t make me feel uncomfortable this time. There was nothing devious or nefarious in it. It just was.

Finally, although his eyes didn’t leave mine, he began to speak. “You must forgive me, Doctor Watson, I underestimated you.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lestrade’s expression of surprise. “It would be very helpful indeed to have a medico with me during this investigation. I have a moderate grasp of medical topics, but I’d prefer to have someone with a specialized knowledge assisting me.” At this, he broke his gaze and turned his back on me. “Although you are not convinced that there is foul play at work here,” How in the world did he know that? “You clearly have a clear and logical mind and you use it.” He turned again, facing me, his eyes blazing brilliantly, waiting for a response.

I was taken aback. Even if I wanted to, I could not leave my shifts at the A & E and go off with this unusual man to investigate a death. As if he could read my mind, and I was starting to wonder if he could, he addressed my unspoken concern. “Both Mr. Sullivan and Dr. Weaver have pledged their support in _what ever way they can_ so they will support your assistance to me, even though they don’t believe it is murder.”

“And you believe it is?”

His pale face looked away. “I think it not unlikely.”

I shifted my weight back and forth on my feet. When I keep moving, as I do at the A & E, my muscles and feet never bother me. But I had been standing, just standing, for a half an hour now, and my inactivity was becoming apparent to my lower limbs.

I wasn’t sure what to say. The prospect of assisting in a possible murder investigation was intoxicating; it was something I had never done before. My bank statement had been relatively stable, regular work was starting to be the norm rather than the exception as it had been in the beginning of my new civilian career. And there was something absolutely magnetic about the man in front of me. He was obviously intelligent, well respected (he was working with the Yard after all), and if I had to admit it, quite good looking in a regal way, with his sharp features and piercing eyes. Those eyes once again turned towards me as if he had heard my appraisal of him.

“It could be dangerous.” He said quietly.

My heart sped up. God how I missed the adrenaline of the battlefield! The A & E was a poor substitute for it. Despite what people think, most of what comes into A & E is not life and death. It's vomit and diarrhea, fever and broken limbs. Some heart attacks, sudden collapse, stroke, but very few actual emergencies where one decision makes a difference between someone living and dying. Not like Afghastan, where every day, every patrol, every shift was a ceaseless bolus of adrenaline. Nothing could beat the battlefield for an adrenaline rush.

I don’t know what he meant by _dangerous_ , but it was enough of a trigger word to tilt any remaining hesitation I may have had over to action. I didn’t trust my voice to answer, so I just nodded in assent.

He smiled, more with his eyes than with his mouth, winked at me, then swirled around, his great coat billowing out behind him as he made for the door. He _winked_ at me, actually winked at me! I hadn’t been winked at… well, lots of women had winked at me, some of them I even ended up dating. But a man hasn’t winked at me… since uni. I was momentarily paralyzed, not knowing what to think of the unusual man, but then my muscles caught up and I followed him out the door, flanked in the rear by Lestrade.


	2. The Poke

“Hey, Mr. Holmes, I can’t just leave my work! I have to _at least_ check in with someone!” I yelled ahead to him. 

He stopped momentarily, turned around, his coat once again flowing around him, and replied, “Call me Sherlock.” Then he held up his mobile, silently telling me that he was texting who ever it was that needed to be texted. I hoped that the man was correct that the hospital was willing to do everything it could to cooperate. Otherwise I was out of a job and a recommendation.

Sherlock disappeared into a stairwell, and Lestrade and I quickly caught up, following him down one flight. He seemed to know his way around the building quite well, at least as well as I did, and I had trained there. I suspected that we were going to “the scene of the crime” as it were, a.k.a. Chambers’ cubicle, and my surmise was correct.

Sherlock stood back from the desk, his eyes taking in everything in front of him. He danced around, getting closer to examine something with a magnifying glass, then farther away again, then closer. He flopped down on his stomach and examined the floor, and even looked at the underside of the desk. Out of the pocket of his coat he produced a petri dish and a sterile blade, which he opened and used to scrape at the floor, dislodging little shards of detrius. He collected his scrapings onto the edge of the blade and deposited them in the dish. Then he stood, pocketing the items.

He turned his attention back to the desk, the surface of which was almost empty. Besides a computer, there was a small pile of papers neatly stacked under an ornate glass globe, and several picture frames. 

Sherlock tried the doors of the desk, finding them unlocked. Each drawer was opened in turn, and the contents examined and returned just as they had been. Then he sat in the swivel chair, and turned around three hundred sixty degrees, taking in every corner of the ceiling and floor, in what appeared to be a very measured and systematic manner. It was almost as if he had a camera in hand, recording every angle and view to examine more thoroughly later.

Finally, he dashed around the whole of the room, his head popping up from behind different cubicle walls and around corners and desks to peer back into Chambers’ space. I wondered to myself if he had seen anything of importance. Certainly he had put on an impressive display, but for whom I was not sure. I half wondered if the man was mad.

As for myself, I was most interested in the photographs displayed in his personal space. Pinned on the wall, there was one picture of a group of men in rugby shirts, likely his team, although I couldn’t pick Chambers out of the mob of small faces. On his desk, in a shiny silver, somewhat tarnished frame, was an older woman, well put together, with short sandy blond hair not unlike the color of my own, eggplant cashmere sweater, a string of pearls encircling her neck, and matching pearl studs. Propped up in the corner, next to his computer monitor, was a small photo of a young couple, the man who I now recognized as the lad I had worked on earlier in the week, and a pretty blond lady, both smiling awkwardly into the camera in a casual restaurant or pub booth.

I glanced over at Lestrade, who was peering around, but looking uninterested. I wondered how he got corralled into investigating a potential long shot crime, which he obviously viewed as a waste of his time. His eye caught mine, and he shrugged with half a shoulder, his expression clearly betraying his opinion on the importance of the matter. I wished that I had time with Lestrade away from Sherlock and the hospital to get the goods on what I had gotten myself into with the mad consulting detective. Somehow Lestrade seemed more down to earth and approachable than Sherlock, who seemed to look and act like some kind of eccentric Greek god.

Sherlock seemed to have satisfied himself, and nodded at Lestrade. Clearly resigned to the tedious interrogations, Lestrade pulled the notebook out of his pocket and referred to it. “Robert Mackay also works in this department. According to Sullivan, he should be working today.” Lestrade started looking around the cubicle barricades, then, thinking better of it, yelled out into the air in a commanding voice. “I’m looking for Robert Mackay, where can I find him?”

Several curious heads popped up around cubicle walls, searching for the source of the outburst, then one young lady spoke up. “I think he is in the filing room, right over there.” She pointed a finger towards a door on the side of the room, on the wall opposite to where we entered.

Lestrade thanked her, and he followed Sherlock, who had already started in the direction of the door. I had to jog to catch up to them, and I felt like a little kid tagging along with his brothers. I was having serious doubts as to what I was doing there.

By the time I got to the door, Sherlock and Lestrade had cornered a tall lanky middle aged bearded fellow, who was holding a file in one hand, his other hand on a file drawer handle. He was scowling at them, radiating an unfriendly countenance. When the door closed behind me, the man turned, focused his attention at me, and furrowed his brow even more that it had been before. He watched as I closed the distance. “Who is this?” He growled.

Lestrade answered, standing tall and using an official sounding voice. “This is Doctor John Watson.” He smiled disarmingly at me. “He is assisting us.” That seemed to satisfy the man, as he returned his attention to Sherlock.

“I told you, I don’t have to answer any questions… I was here Monday, but I didn’t see anything, or hear anything. I was in here.” He waved his hand around the filing room. “I don’t know anything.” I always thought it was interesting that it was the people who objected the loudest that usually said the most. The man continued. “If you ask me, the kid had been asking for it. Friendly enough chap, I’ll give him that… but a bit pompous, a class above the rest of us, if you know what I mean.” He opened the file drawer, thumbed through it, and inserted the file. Then he reached on top of the file cabinet and removed the first folder on a pile left there.

Sherlock pressed him, “Did he have any disagreements or conflicts with anyone specific?” The man considered, but he appeared uncomfortable with the question. I had a feeling that he was hiding something. “No.” was all he said, then he looked at his feet, before focusing his attention on the file in his hand.

Sherlock and Lestrade looked at each other and silently seemed to agree that they had gotten all they would out of Robert Mackay. Lestrade pulled a card out of his wallet, and held it out to the reticent man. “Please call me if you think of anything.” The man took the card, and without looking at it, slipped it in his back trouser pocket. Lestrade thanked him, and the two detectives turned and made their way towards the door. I followed the two investigators out of the filing room and back into the cubicle area. Lestrade consulted his notebook once again.

“Zoe Hackett. Medical Receptionist. I was told she has an office just down the hallway.” Feeling superfluous, I followed the two down the hall, wondering what kind of excuse I could use to get back to the A & E, where at least I could do some good. They stopped at a door midway down the passage, and knocked. A murmured response came from inside the room, and Sherlock reached forward, and swung the door open.

A thirty-something curly haired red-head in a head set smiled at them, and motioned to them with one hand to enter. Her office was small and crowded and there were only two chairs, so I stood. The woman was talking on the headset, apparently confirming an appointment for the following day. Her eyes focused on the computer screen in front of her, striking a key here and there as she checked the details which popped up on the screen. After she ended the call, she removed her headset, and surveyed the three of us. “You must be the gentlemen investigating Alistair’s… em… Alistair.” Her eyes looked a bit misty, and she looked down at her desk for a moment, before clearing her face and smiling again at each of us in turn. “How can I help you?”

“Miss Hackett, this is Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson, and I’m DI Gregory Lestrade.” She peered at me with furrowed brows before breaking into a relaxed smile, in apparent recognition. “You work upstairs…”

“Em, yes.” I answered. She simpered at me, diverting her eyes and batting her eyelashes suggestively. I almost choked. It was the flirty, toothy smile of an _interested_ woman.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. “Yes Miss Hackett… I’m sure Doctor Watson is looking for more than your usual one night stand-“

“Sherlock!” Lestrade interrupted him sharply. Zoe Hackett looked scandalized, but Sherlock didn’t apologize, instead, the corner of his lip rose a small amount.

Giving Sherlock a reproachful glare, Lestrade decided to take the lead. “Miss Hackett, did you know the… that is, did you know Alistair Chambers?”

She nodded, glowering at Sherlock, and then shifted her attention to Lestrade and myself. “He was a lovely boy, really. So sweet and… nice.” I hoped that someone would say something better than _nice_ about me when I was dead. “The girls were all crazy about him… less so the guys. They know competition when they see it.” She looked off in the distance dreamily. “Not that _I_ had a thing for him. He was much too young for me… but some of the other girls were crazy about him… It didn’t take him long to find a girlfriend here… she’s a nice enough girl, I have nothing against her. But some of the other girls were a bit disappointed when they started dating, and of course, that doesn’t stop _some_ ladies from pursuing a man. Not that I would ever condone that…” Oh god, she was one of those women who babbled on and on, and would just never shut up. Somewhere around there I had stopped listening. If I wanted to listen to gossip like that I’d just call up my sister Harry. I noticed that Sherlock let her babble on and on, and even nodded a time or two to encourage her. I looked at Lestrade, but he just looked back at me, rolled his drooping eyes, and shrugged.

It must have been a full five minutes later when Sherlock’s voice interrupted my wandering mind. “And did you see Mr. Chambers on Monday?”

Her eyes grew wide, in an overly exaggerated way. “Oh, no! I wish I would have. At least I’d have been able to say goodbye properly…” I wanted to point out that that she wouldn’t have known to say goodbye… unless she was the killer, which I doubted. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and I had to hide my smile. I felt his eyes on my face though, and I know that he saw my reaction. I looked at him, and there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes. I couldn’t help myself… I winked at him.

Lestrade rescued us from her endless babbling by thanking her and giving her a card with instructions to contact him if she remembered anything. I was glad that she had Lestrade’s number and not mine; I don’t think I could listen to her jabbering on any longer than I already had.

Stepping out into the corridor, I had to squeeze the repetitive voice out of my eyes. I wasn’t tired, but there was something about a droning voice that had always put sleep into my mind. Likely the effect of hours of sitting in medical classes, listening to voices drone on and on. Most of the speakers and topics were fascinating and captivating, but the ones that weren’t were pure torture just to stay awake.

Lestrade cleared his throat absently, his way of shaking her voice away I guessed, and he consulted his trusty notebook. “Only two left that are working today… both in the maintenance department.” Sherlock barely heard the last word when he was turning on his heal and his coat billowed behind him. That move really suited him; it somehow softened his angular physique and gave his movement incredible grace… with a touch of mystery and flair. My stomach gave me a little twitch, and I thought back to the last time I ate- before my shift started. That must be why my stomach felt the way it did.

Down the corridor, to the left, past the lift, to the right, and through the double doors marked “morgue”. I was a bit confused as I thought we were going to the maintenance department, but apparently Sherlock had other ideas. By the time I made my way through the doors Sherlock was already at the side of a young mousy haired woman in a pony tail, her otherwise pristine white lab coat stained with small brown dots near the hem in front. He slapped the petri dish from his pocket into her hand. Her brown eyes slid up, first to Sherlock, who was already turning to me, then over to my eyes.

“Dr. Watson, I’d like to you meet Dr. Molly Hooper, Molly, this is Dr. John Watson.”

“Please, call me John, both of you,” I extended my meaning to Sherlock, who couldn’t hide his smile. “It’s nice to put a face to a name. I’ve gotten lots of your post mortem reports.” I shook her hand. She had a warm firm grip, not too hard, but not the soft limp hand that women sometimes give.

“Oh, yes! Dr. Watson, from A & E.” Her smile was shy and meek, and her glance kept going to Sherlock. “Emm…” she looked at the dark haired detective, then held up the petri dish.

“I need you to confirm that it is human blood, then a profile.”

Dr. Hooper looked skeptically at the sample, her brows furrowed as she shook the dish to quantify the amount of scrapings, then replied, “I… I don’t know Sherlock. It might… not be enough.” She wasn’t stammering exactly, more like she was nervous and couldn’t come up with the words that she wanted. It didn’t surprise me exactly. I could see where the mysterious man could have that effect on someone.

“It will be enough. Just do it…. Oh, and I need to see a body… Chambers.” She shuffled away, calling for an assistant as she did. I was amazed at how easily she took orders from Sherlock, as if he did this every day. Of course he had such a presence about him that it was difficult to say no to him.

Chambers, on his back with a white sheet draped over him, was wheeled out. Molly reached over the body, and expertly slid the white sheet down and off the victim. He had a “Y” shaped incision sutured closed along his chest and abdomen, but otherwise there were no obvious injuries or scars to mar him. Sherlock surveyed the front of the body quickly and then commanded. “Turn him over.” I started forward to help, but Dr. Hooper and her assistant were so practiced in this maneuver that they had him flipped over before I could complete a single step. Sherlock snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, and started methodically and systematically running his fingers through the hair at the back of the man’s head. He started near the neck, and went back and forth, first right to left, then left to right, as he worked his way towards the crown of the head.

After about ten minutes, midway up the skull, he pulled a magnifying glass out of his coat pocket, unsheathed it, and started examining the location he stopped at. His finger and thumb delicately parted the hair and millimeter by millimeter he progressed along until he was satisfied. “Molly, John, look here.”

Molly stepped over, reached for the magnifying glass and peered through it. Her face was scrunched up in concentration, then her eyebrows shot up. “How did you find that?” She asked, clearly impressed.

“I looked for it.” He said it so matter-of-factly. He wasn’t being a smart-arse. He simply knew that it would be there, he _knew_ , so he looked for it. There was no guessing, no suppositions.

Molly handed the glass to me and stepped away. Stepping forward, I felt a gentle hand on the small of my back, for just a moment as I moved, and I didn’t have to look to know the gentle touch was from Sherlock. I was glad that no one could see the growing grin on my face. I peered thru the glass, wondering what I was looking for, when right under my eyes I saw five or six tiny red-black sheaths surrounding light brown hair shafts, at the center of which was a minute piercing in the surface of the skin. If it hadn’t been pointed out, I would have missed it. As it was, I almost thought that my imaginator lenses were working overtime. But it was obvious to me now. Tiny bits of blood crusting the hair where a small hypodermic syringe had been used. I found my admiration for the detective swelling, and there was a fluttering in my abdomen which I dismissed once again as hunger.

“So, are you going to let me in on the secret?” Lestrade had stayed at the edge of the crowd. He clearly felt out of his depths in the morgue.

All eyes went Sherlock. He looked at each person in the room, commanding our attention, before he took a breath and started. “It’s a good thing that housekeeping services around here are lax. Obviously no one has mopped the floor in the record keeping area since Monday. On the floor in front of Chamber’s desk you saw me scarping at something on the floor, which I collected in the petri dish. Dr. Hooper is now in possession of that. What she will find is Chamber’s blood, his DNA profile. Noticing the droplet pattern on the floor, it was clear that the blood must have come directly from the wound, but that the wound was microscopic. Where on the body could a blood particle drop from unimpeded to the floor, and the wound not be noticed during the post mortem? The back of the skull. You seemed surprised that I knew where to look. I knew it was there because it could be no where else.” Things seemed so perfectly clear when Sherlock explained them, and I wonder how I failed to see what he saw.

“So it was murder…” Lestrade stated the obvious.

“Molly, can you try to recover any trace of toxin from the needle track?”

“I can try.” She offered. Sherlock nodded, but I noticed that he did not seem as confident in her ability to recover the toxin as he did in getting the DNA profile. I supposed it was a long shot; it had to be an uncommon toxin since it failed to show up on the toxicology screen of Chamber’s blood. Likely there would not be enough of a sample along the tiny needle track to run too many assays on. Since each toxin demanded its own test, selecting the right test for the possible toxin would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

Sherlock looked at me. “Any ideas about what it could be?” I wondered if he already knew, and if this was a test. But his face looked genuine, so I considered carefully, already eager to please the man.

“Em… just thinking out loud, I’d have to assume it was a toxin. If it was a toxin it would have to be an uncommon toxin, since it didn’t appear on the tox screen, and nothing abnormal was seen on the chem panel. No local inflammation or swelling evident, no gross effects on the liver or kidney… a bit odd that, for a toxin. Perhaps it caused an arrhythmia, something like potassium, but potassium would have been evident on the electrolytes in the doses needed to kill someone quickly, especially since it wasn’t given IV. And the amount of the toxin must have been small, given the gauge of the needle used to make that track, and that it had not been noticed by the victim, at least it seems he didn’t notice, so likely a very potent toxin.…” I stopped, not knowing how to continue. I didn’t know of any such substance. It sounded like a mystery novel, a potent, rare, untraceable toxin. Well, maybe it really wasn’t untraceable, once you knew what to look for. But right now, we didn’t know what to look for. At least _I_ didn’t know. Whether or not Sherlock knew was a different matter, and with what I had seen in the past few hours, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he _did_ know. I looked at the genius, deciding at that point in time that that is _exactly_ what he was.

Sherlock was standing, his fingers tented in front of his chin, his mouth working silently, as if he was talking to himself in his mind. I noticed that Molly and Lestrade just watched him expectantly, like this was the most normal thing in the world to do. When he didn’t immediately start speaking, Lestrade and Molly patiently relaxed a bit, but they stayed silent. Sherlock stood that way for about five minutes, then, without saying a word, he turned, and strode off quickly towards the double doors. Lestrade started after him, and I quickly caught up, trailing the two detectives down the hallway. I don’t know what just happened, but clearly it was the way things worked with Sherlock and Lestrade. And Molly was no stranger to the phenomenon.

It only took us about a minute to reach the maintenance office. Just as we reached it, Lestrade pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket and put it to his ear, answering with his name. After a brief conversation, he turned to Sherlock. “Sorry Sherlock. I got to run. Apparently Anderson can’t collect evidence without supervision.” Sherlock chuckled at this, but Lestrade wasn’t happy. “Text me when you know anything.” Sherlock nodded. Lestrade pocketed his mobile and reversed his direction, striding towards the exit, which was a long way down several hallways.

Apparently Sherlock didn’t believe in knocking, because he took the doorknob in hand and turned it. Entering the office, he stuck his head into a back room and called out “Mr. Baird, Mr. Hayes. Sherlock Holmes here.” There was an answer from somewhere in the back, but I couldn’t decipher the words. Sherlock turned, and took the opportunity to study the front office. A single desk stood to the side, covered in papers and files, with envelopes and correspondences piled to one side. On the wall was a magnetic white board, with columns dividing the board into five columns, and magnets holding up maintenance orders in different columns. Along the opposite wall was a table piled with various tools, pipe wrenches, screw drivers, a power driver, two torches, a pail, an assortment of screws and nails scattered about, and a broken piece of plumbing pipe. Leaning against the wall was a ceiling tile, a circle inked in the center of it. The room was not very big, and the two of us had to watch our step to avoid tripping.

Two men in thick canvas trousers and white button down shirts appeared from the back area. The first one was older, with gray stubble and short grizzled hair, braces holding his trousers up. He looked suspiciously at the two of us. The second man was much younger, with dark wavy hair and an upturned nose, with a thick smile line engraved around his mouth.

“What did you say your name is?” The first man asked, his voice gravely and deep, and his eyes clearly cold.

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And this is my colleague, Doctor Watson.” The old man grunted at us. “We are here to ask you some questions about Monday.” I liked the sound of me as Sherlock’s colleague, or as anything associated with him if I was being honest with myself.

The old man grunted again, but his assistant piped up. “Emm… I wasn’t here on Monday.”

Sherlock looked at him. “Mr. Hayes, is it not?” The man nodded. “Mr. Sullivan told me you were scheduled to work last Monday.” Sherlock was not a man who got things wrong.

Hayes smiled at him. “Yes, I was scheduled to work, but I got a migraine. I called in to my boss.” He motioned towards the old man. “And I stayed home.”

“Do you get a lot of migraines?” I enquired, encouraged by his introduction to make some sort of contribution to the investigation.

The man turned to me. “Not a lot… but some. When they hit me, I’m completely useless.” He shrugged. That was not unusual. Migraines could completely disable a person for hours or even days.

Sherlock looked at the older man. “What about you… you were here on Monday, were you not?” The old man grunted. “And you spent some time in the records room… doing what?”

“I was cleaning air registers Monday. Not just in the records room, but all over.” His eyes were still suspicious as he looked between Sherlock and me.

“Did you see anyone who didn’t belong, or anything unusual?”

The old man scoffed. “I go all over this hospital. I see doctors, nurses, student, interns, residents, patients, and visitors. Do you think I know or care who any of them are?! They change so often I’d be a fool to learn their names.” His brows were furrowed, his mouth turned down, and he was shaking his head to himself.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Then I followed up, and asked, “Okay, then did you _hear_ anything odd or unusual, screaming, crying?”

The man turned to me. “I go all over this hospital. I hear screaming and crying all the time… by patients and visitors, students, nurses, and sometimes even doctors. I don’t pay no mind to any of it. Ain’t none of my business.” So much for my bedside manner. This man was difficult to thaw.

Hayes interrupted at this point, his voice stumbling a bit. “Em… Do you need me anymore… I mean… can I go? I need to clock out now or they will get on me for having overtime.” He looked at his Rolex, then from one to the other of us.

“How well did you know Chambers?” 

“I didn’t know him at all. I’m not sure if I even met him.” Hayes looked sincere in his answer.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then motioned him away with his hand. Hayes grabbed a coat from behind himself and padded out the door, closing it softly behind him.

The old man’s expression softened a bit. “Good kid, he is. Hard working, courteous.” He nodded to himself. “Time for me to start thinking of retirement. I’ve been here for almost forty years. Someone else is going to need to take over soon.” I felt like I was invading his thoughts, like he was planning something personal, naming an heir. The thoughts were in such stark contrast to his rancor of a moment before. I found him quickly disarming me.

Sherlock did not have had the same reaction to the man’s change of heart. When he voiced one more question, his tone was as objective and unemotional as it had been for the previous questions. “Did you know Chambers, the man who died on Monday?”

Baird sneered. “Nope.” He looked Sherlock straight in the eyes as he said this.

Sherlock merely nodded once and departed out the door. “Em… thank you Mr. Baird for your time.” I added. The old man grunted. I dashed out the door, and glanced both ways down the hall, spotting the detective at a fork in the hall. “Sherlock… Sherlock… wait up.” I was getting tired of running after the man. Sherlock turned and looked at me, a bit surprised, as if he had forgotten that I was there.

As I slowed my pace I prodded him. “So, who’s next?”

Looking at his watch he replied “Today, no one. We have a couple more people to speak with, but they can wait. They aren’t here today, and won’t be tomorrow either.” He looked at me with the expression that I was quickly equating with deliberation. I waited patiently. After a minute he appeared to come to a conclusion.

“We need to go to ZSL London Zoo tomorrow for an interview. I live on Baker Street, not far from the zoo. You are welcome to stay in my flat if you wish. It would save you significant travel time.”

I was a bit surprised. I had only known this man for a few hours, but already I felt so comfortable in his company that I was actually considering the offer. There was something about this man that I clicked with, that just seemed right. I was used to being extremely independent, to a point where I didn’t let myself get close to anyone, I didn’t trust anyone to provide me with any support, any deep friendship. But Sherlock seemed to break through that barrier, and I didn’t know or understand why. He wasn’t the nicest man I’d ever met. He often appeared short with people, rude even, and gave off an air of independence, even arrogance. But he was so intelligent, so quick, had amazing powers of deduction and reasoning, and yet there was a sense of humor beneath it all. I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him.

“Yeah… okay.” I allowed myself to smile. I glanced down at the scrubs that I was wearing and added, “But I’ll need to change into my civvies… em… my street clothes.” I felt my heart speed up a bit and a flush go to my cheeks, so I turned quickly, hoping to hide the blush that was forming on my face. I heard Sherlock chuckle as he obviously heard my military reference.

A flight of stairs and a long hallway later and I was outside the door to the doctor’s room. I swiped my access badge, and entered. In the wardrobe, I found my clothes folded and stacked just as I had left them at the beginning of the shift. Quickly stripping the scrubs I was wearing, I basketed them in the laundry hamper to be washed and reissued by Central Supply, and stepped into my jeans, t-shirt and navy cable-knit jumper. I combed my hair, and satisfied with what I saw in the mirror next to the cot, I shrugged into my coat and left the room.

I was surprised for only a minute when I saw Sherlock outside the door, leaning against the wall, one knee bent and that foot flat against the wall. He knew Barts better than I did, so of course he knew where I was headed when I left him on the floor below. He pushed against the wall to straighten himself. We walked down the passage to the nearest exit, and passed through the doors into the chill of the evening.

The cool breeze felt refreshing, even with the tiny water droplets that seemed to hang in the air. We took about ten strides when I felt Sherlock slow. I continued with a few more paces before turning and seeing him working his thumbs frantically over the screen of his mobile. Then, all at once, there was a great crashing detonation of thunder and rumbling right behind me, and I felt the spray of shrapnel on my legs and back. Instinctively I dove away from the mysterious explosion.


	3. The First of Many Nights

I don’t think I could have stopped the tuck and roll that I did even if I had known something was going to happen. It was pure instinct. A soldier’s reactions are never completely erased. I found myself on the pavement, and Sherlock Holmes rushed up to me, eyes wide and wild, as he frantically asked, “John! Are you all right? John!” He was bending down, hand on my forearm, breathing ragged.

I came to myself, still not sure what had happened, but not feeling any pain, or any strange sensations other than a bit of an adrenaline rush. “Yeah… I’m all right.” I breathed out. With strength that I didn’t expect from him, Sherlock fisted my coat, and lifted me to my feet, his eyes searching mine to confirm the truth. When he was satisfied, and his gaze eased, I turned to see what was behind me, and there was light gray debris, irregular shapes with many sharp corners and of various different sizes. It took me a moment to realize it was the remains of a cinder block scattered on the pavement, with a crack in the pavement where it had landed. I breathed a sigh of relief, a sense of disbelief growing in my mind. _A cinder block?_

Sherlock’s head snapped up to Barts exterior, then he took off running, his long strides quickly erasing the distance to the door. “Come on, John!”

I pulled myself together and raced after Sherlock, into Barts. Sherlock was already bounding up the stair case, two steps at a time, and I chased behind him, my breath coming heavily as the realization of the near disaster that was avoided became evident. When he reached the roof access door, he tugged on the handle, but it did not budge. Sherlock clenched his hands around the handle and shook it back and forth several times unsuccessfully, and he growled loudly and with great frustration. Besides the door was a key fob reader. I pulled out my access badge, swiped the badge, and the red light on the machine did not blink. I swiped again, then again, with the same result. I looked at Sherlock and shook my head sharply.

Sherlock snarled and took a deep breath. Regaining his composure he pursed his lips then sighed. “It was a long shot anyways. He’s probably long gone.” The detective turned, his face clenched in concentration, and quickly tapped down the steps, into the lobby, and back out the door. I padded down after him, determined to not be left behind. He strode over to the remnants of the cement block on the pavement and barked at the small crowd that had assembled to disperse. The crowd backed away, but many stayed to gawk at the “accident” and to await any developments.

Sherlock examined the remains of the block from several angles and glanced up at the side of the building several times, satisfying himself. I watched him work, fascinated with the methodical and systematic approach, until he felt my gaze on him. He looked up at me, tilted his head and raised one eyebrow, so I asked my question. “What made you so certain that the block came from the roof? It could have come from one of the windows.” Perhaps we had raced right past the perpetrator in our dash to the roof.

Sherlock looked down at the pavement and pointed. “Look at the scatter pattern of the block. It is perpendicular to the building, symmetric, so the block came straight out from the building, not at an angle. Look at the landing spot in relation to the windows. The landing spot is between windows. In order for the block to land here,” he motioned with his hand, “it would have had to be tossed out of the window either up or down the road at an angle from one of those windows. If that were done, the scatter pattern would have been at a corresponding angle. Therefore, the only place that the block could have come from was the roof.” It was obvious when he explained it. What was remarkable was that all of that occurred to him in an instance, with a single glance, and he had been heading up the stairs before I even computed that it had _not_ been a mortar that caused the blast, but a cinder block. Unfortunately, the person who dropped the block had too much of a head start on us for us to catch him.

A smile was forming on Sherlock’s face, one that was genuine and almost triumphant. “Someone doesn’t like us investigating this murder.” He looked at me meaningfully, and I hoped that I wasn’t missing something important. I’d quickly discovered that, although I was not ignorant or slow by any measure, his mind was lightning. With that, he raised his arm, and a cab stopped right beside him. He looked back at me again, silently commanding me to enter the cab, which I did. Sherlock folded himself in after me. “221 Baker Street.” I was gently pressed against the seat as the cab accelerated, and noticed that his knees hit mine. We were sitting closer together than two strangers usually did. It was not awkward in any way, in fact, I felt quite content.

The second floor flat was an interesting combination of Victorian charm in its architecture, and modern forensics in its contents. Piles of papers, books, file folders and boxes littered the floor and table spaces. A microscope, racks of test tubes, stacks of petri plates and slides, and a couple of flasks with liquid were scattered on the kitchen table. I noticed some pieces of equipment that I had not used since my student days, including a centrifuge, pipetteman, and gram scale, with a gray gritty substance in a weigh boat next to the scale.

The books themselves were an interesting assortment. Many books on chemistry, analytical chemistry, organic chemistry, physical chemistry, statistics, calculus, forensic pathology, forensic entomology, cryptography, history of crime, detection, molecular physics, toxins, poisons, as well as a variety of other topics. When I asked Sherlock if he read any of the books he had, he furrowed his brows and wrinkled his nose in an expression that clearly said “of course I have read them all, why else would I have them?” Of course, what a fool I was.

The evening itself was remarkably normal, considering I was spending it with a genius. We ordered take away Chinese food, which was tasty and filling, welcome since I hadn’t eaten since early in the morning. Then we watched a movie, Death at a Funeral, seated next to each other on the sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn even though neither of us was hungry anymore. Sherlock’s laugh, more of a chuckle than an outright laugh, was very endearing, with its low tones consistent with his deep baritone voice. Every time he chuckled I fought the urge to just stare at him with growing fondness.

After the movie, I used Sherlock’s laptop to check my e-mail while he picked up his violin and started to play. At first he warmed up his fingers; the scales were hidden in a gentle melody. But when he began to play in earnest, his emotions appeared to be funneled through his fingertips and the music came to life; I could hear the epic story that the instrument was telling and I soon found myself lost in my dreams. I awoke some time later to find a duvet covering me, and the music continuing in melodies I had never heard before. The music was soft and soothing, one tune seamlessly transitioning into the next. A glance at the clock showed me that it was two AM.

I struggled to get upright on the sofa from where I lay. “Sherlock, why didn’t you wake me? It’s late.” I shifted my weight to the edge of the sofa, and struggled to rise, fighting my fatigue.

“Why would I wake you just to tell you to go to sleep?” Well, I have to admit, when he put it that way my question did sound silly. There wasn’t anything that I could say to that, so I just shrugged one shoulder, feeling a bit foolish.

“I’m going to sleep. Upstairs, you said?” Sherlock nodded, not bothering to stop his playing. I headed up the stairs to the spare bedroom. I was grateful it was up on the third floor and warmer than I expected, since I didn’t have any pajamas with me. Stripping down to my pants, I slipped between the silky sheets, and I couldn’t have taken more than a few breaths before I was fast asleep, the somniferous violin whispering in the background.

**

It was difficult to clear my head. I felt disoriented, uncertain where I was. The scents surrounding me were fresh, not floral, but sweet somehow. The din of traffic echoed in the distance. I had dreamed. I was back at Uni, forgot that I had an examination in one of my classes. I couldn’t remember any more than that about it. It became a lingering feeling of apprehension as the ephemeral vision vanished. I turned over, realizing the bed was not my own as my bare limbs slid smoothly between the luxurious layers of sheets.

As I became more awake I remembered where I was and the events of the day before. Looking at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed, I saw that it was half eight. Six hours of sleep was a reasonable amount. I had to pee, so I slipped to the side of the mattress and slid my feet to the floor. I walked to the door, opened it, and hanging on the outside doorknob was a tartan robe that was not there the night before; a very thoughtful gesture. I shrugged into it, and giggled. It hung almost to the floor.

I crept down the stairs, not wanting to wake Sherlock if he wasn’t up yet. I needn’t have worried as he was slumped on the sofa, with his feet up on the coffee table, hunched over his laptop, a blue dressing gown draped over his shoulders. I would have sworn that I hadn’t made a sound, but, without looking up, Sherlock addressed me. “There is tea in the kitchen, and toast and jam… Don’t eat anything else in the refrigerator, especially if it’s not labeled; I have several experiments going on in there.” It didn’t faze me at all. I had roommates (especially while in medical school) with inedible items in the fridge before, except they usually didn’t warn me ahead of time. I just learned to never open the refrigerator door. This was actually an improvement.

After eating a bite, I settled in an armchair to finish my tea. The newspaper had been sitting in the other armchair, so I reached over and picked it up, paging through it. As I perused the headlines, the ticking of the keys on the lap top stopped, and I looked up.

“Did you sleep all right?” I knew it was just small talk, but a good start. What else would two people who barely know each other talk about?

I considered. “Actually, I did. Best I’ve slept in a while. Must have been all the excitement yesterday… or maybe because I had a chance to wind down before going to bed. It was nice not to spend a couple of hours walking and taking the tube to get back home… I really have to find an affordable flat share closer…” I had been looking on and off for a couple of months, but I didn’t know many people in London and was a bit hesitant to share a flat with a complete stranger, someone that I didn’t know.

Sherlock tilted his head and furrowed his brows. “John, I have the spare room upstairs. You could move in here.”

I looked at him, not sure if he was serious or not. He wasn’t laughing and seemed perfectly sincere… It was a nice flat… spacious sitting room, much larger than my current place… great location, near Barts, especially nice if I worked at Barts for a while, but close to Baker Street Station even if I got employed elsewhere. Sherlock seemed like a decent enough guy, must be honest if he works with a DI, and certainly we seemed compatible, maybe even harmonious in our initial alliance, having spent most of the day before together…

I must have taken too long to reply. Sherlock asked, “Problem?”

“No, no… Em… yeah… could be nice…” I nodded my head in the affirmative. 

Sherlock smiled, his face and body relaxing. “Good.”

To think that I had just agreed to move in with someone that I barely knew. But honestly, it really wasn’t that big of a risk. It had to be better than the bedsit I was in, and if it didn’t work, I’d just find somewhere else. I think what would bother me more about it not working out was the failure of a potentially exciting and intimate friendship, or more than a friendship if I were hopeful, rather than the loss of a flat.

Sherlock looked back down at his computer screen and I heard the tapping on the keys commence. I tipped my mug to my lips, and found that it was empty. Rising, I padded back to the kitchen and did the washing up. I hated to have dishes sit, and I was intent to prove that I would pull my weight as a flat mate. Then I returned to “my room”, realizing when I got there, that I didn’t have any fresh clothes with me. Actually, I didn’t have anything at all with me.

I returned to the sitting room and asked simply “towels?”

Without looking up, as if we had been communicating in truncated form of language for a long while, Sherlock answered, “Closet by the loo.”

I found the towels, and it didn’t take me long after that to shower, return to my room, dress in my day old clothes, which thankfully didn’t smell horrendously, and reappear in the sitting room. “What do we have on for today?” I was ready to continue my new role as Sherlock’s assistant, or colleague as he had called me, especially now that it appeared that Chamber’s death was likely murder. There must be some results for the sample handed over to the pathologist.

As if reading my mind, I don’t know how he did that, Sherlock told me, “Molly confirmed that the blood found under Chambers’ desk is human. It will take a couple of days for the DNA profile to confirm that it is his.” He slapped the lid of his lap top down, and rose to his feet, his body close to mine. “We have two more interviews with Chambers’ coworkers, then we’ll meet with Lestrade and compare notes.” His eyes were soft and affectionate. Then he walked down the hall to his bedroom and disappeared for a minute. When he returned, he wore a suit coat rather than a dressing gown over his trousers and shirt. I felt incredibly self conscious as my clothes were yesterday’s edition, and much more casual, and inexpensive, than his.

He shrugged into his great coat and wound a blue scarf around his neck while I put on my jacket, and we clambered down the stairs. Once on the pavement, I followed Sherlock’s lead, and started down Baker Street. The cool morning air was refreshing. We walked side by side, occasionally bumping shoulders, and I cataloged the shops we passed, making note of the ones I’d like to return to. After walking about a block, I ventured to ask “Where are we going?”

“The zoo.” Sometimes Sherlock was a man of few words. I remembered from yesterday that we were going to the zoo; it was the reason I agreed to stay at his flat for the night. I waited a few moments to see if he was going to expound on his statement. When he failed to do so, I prodded.

“The zoo? Why the zoo?” I hoped that I was not coming across as a complete imbecile.

“We will be talking with Mr. Conner Wade, who works in security at the zoo. He also works security at Barts and was on duty when Chambers was killed… Regents Park isn’t far. It’s a good day for a stroll.”

We skirted the outer confines of Regents Park, on the outer circle, a companionable and comfortable silence between us, while a soft breeze pushed us along. It only took us about twenty minutes, and we were at the entrance. Sherlock spoke with the attendant, showing him something in his wallet, and we entered the premises. The first building we encountered, just inside the entrance, was the brick Reptile House, the great arch and 2 sets of double doors, a palm tree flanking them on each side, welcoming our presence. Sherlock stopped. “He will meet us here.”

I nodded absently, wondering once again why Sherlock needed an assistant, needed me. Surely a medical man like myself would have little to contribute to a police investigation. The contented confidence that I had been enjoying was starting to wane.

I held my hands behind my back, in a parade rest, glancing around. I found that, especially when stressed, I often converted to the familiar of the military protocol. Somehow it calmed me. There was a gorilla exhibit across the path in one direction, and the aquarium next door. Signs indicated the way to the outback animals, and the safari birds. A young blond woman, covered lightly in a pea coat strolled by, pushing a pram with a sleeping bundle cuddled up in it. The sun, warming my face, relaxed me and helped push my feelings of incompetence away.

Glancing down the main path, I saw a young man dressed in what was obviously a uniform, navy pants and button down shirt, with a police style matching hat. A torch hanging from his side completed the ensemble. It was obvious, even to me, that he was the man we were waiting for. I saw Sherlock peering his way, and I knew that the genius had already gathered more information from that one look than I’d get in an entire day of conversation with him.

“Mr. Holmes?” The costumed man asked, looking from one to the other of us. I was proud to be mistaken for Sherlock.

“Mr. Wade.” Sherlock replied, as an acknowledgement to the man’s question.

“What can I do for you?” Conner Wade was a very average looking man, medium height and build, short dark hair, unremarkable features and an unassuming manner. His smile was hesitant, mildly curious.

“My colleague Dr. Watson and I are investigating the death of Alistair Chambers, and we’d like to ask you some questions.” Sherlock’s eyes were locked onto the man, and I knew he was focusing his powers of observation and deduction intensely on the man in front of him.

“I’m sorry, who?” He continued to show a small disarming smile.

“The young man at Saint Barts.” I indicated, drawing the young man’s attention to me.

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. Quite a shock to everyone.” He shifted his weight between his feet. “I’m not sure how I can help.” He looked from one to the other of us.

Sherlock continued to study him. “Did you know Mr. Chambers?”

The young man furrowed his brows in thought. “I probably saw him about. I didn’t know him by name, but there are so many people there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I work the whole building. There’s not much time to stop and talk with people a whole lot.” I nodded. It was similar to the story given by the maintenance men.

“Do you remember anything unusual happening on Monday? Anyone strange or unusual in the building?” Sherlock was watching him closely.

Wade’s lips puffed out and curved to one side, and his eyes went to the sky in concentration. He contemplated for a half a minute. “No, I can’t think of anyone or anything strange happening. It was a pretty average day. I didn’t even know that they took anyone up to A & E until the next day when my boss told me.”

I thought back to the chaos, emotion and drama of Monday, with staff from all departments stopping by the A & E to watch the commotion. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be unaware of what was happening. People were stopping by in mass, as if an announcement about the event had taken place over the loud speakers.

“Are there CCTVs in Barts? Can we see if anyone who didn’t belong there entered the building?”

“We have cameras in the public areas and at the entrances. We could look at those. I’m not sure how long the recordings are kept, but a couple of weeks at least. I don’t have anything to do with the camera or images. But I don’t know how you’d tell who didn’t belong. Heck, we get hundreds of patients and visitors a day.” He had a point there. Even in the A & E, the number of visitors and friends outnumbered the patients easily.

“What about camera in staff areas, like in the records department, or administrative areas?” 

Wade shook his head. “No cameras there. Just in the public areas, and the patient wards.”

Sherlock nodded his head, but I could tell he was disappointed and frustrated by the way his eyes darted around. Wade and I waited to see if any more questions were forthcoming. When none appeared to be, Wade turned to me. “This” he nodded to the Reptile House with his head “is my favorite exhibit. Do you want to see it?” I looked over at Sherlock, waiting for permission, but his mind was elsewhere. Since I couldn’t come up with any questions to ask at that moment, I thought it the perfect opportunity to have more time to suss out information .

“Sure.” I answered. Maybe Wade would have something more to say when he wasn’t thinking about it, or when he was more relaxed and not on his guard.

We went into the old building and started wandering around separately. There was a central area and two wings, each holding mini ecosystems providing a realistic environment for the animals. I had never been in this exhibit before, so I started by getting my bearings and a general sense of what animals were where, then I stopped by some of the more captivating specimens.

I stopped in front of the Black Mamba exhibit, and stared at the silent still gray snake, blending into the background of gray gravel, woven around a large branch. Wade stepped next to me and started talking. “Oohhh, the black mamba, one of my favorites. He’s called the black mamba not because of is scale color, but because his mouth is black. He is very _very_ fast, and aggressive. He may be the most poisonous snake, if he bites you you will die unless you get the antivenom.” A bit unnerving, that, so, not knowing what to say in reply, I walked on.

I stopped next at the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake, beautiful yellow scales surrounding patterns of black diamonds. Wade shadowed me. “I wouldn’t want to get nailed by one of those either.” He whispered confidentially. “One of the keepers here was bit, and almost lost his arm. Even with the antivenom there was so much damage to his hand, where he was bit, that he lost some of the function of his hand. He doesn’t work here anymore.” I wasn’t sure if he was whispering because what happened to the zoo keeper was a secret or so as to not aggravate the snake.

After a moment of watching the rattler, who was not moving, I strolled onto the next glass enclosure. Seeing a couple of cobras wound through the vegetation of the exhibit, their hoods flattened against their bodies as they slept, I asked Wade. “So, they have antivenom here?”

Wade nodded. “They have different antivenom for each of the different snakes. Keepers don’t get bit often, but when they do, they need treatment right away.” I nodded, recalling the lectures that I attended on snake bites in medical school. Pictures of limbs black and swollen from venom, necrotic bite sites and videos displaying people in incredible pain from the toxin that kills tissue and disrupts nerve impulses. There is only one venomous snake in Britain, the common adder, and that was rarely fatal. However, the bite could be very painful, and the local tissue severely damaged. I was happy to leave that exhibit behind.

I moved along to less sinister species. There was a Mountain Chicken Frog, of the Dominica, one of the largest frogs in the world, its sides tucking in and out with each breath. “This frog is critically endangered, and London Zoo has just successfully bred two females, and has 76 young from them. In the wild they are being infected by a fungus which kills them. Breeding them in captivity is a huge accomplishment.” I was impressed with Wade’s knowledge. He obviously spent a lot of time watching and learning about the animals.

It seemed like a good chance to ask some more probing questions. “Have you been working here long?”

“Depends what you consider ‘long’. I’ve been here a couple of years.”

I waited to see if he’d say more, but after a few moments, I prodded, “Do you like it?”

He turned and looked at me, considering. “I love the quiet times, when we are not as busy, and I can stop and watch my friends.” He called the animals his friends. “Walking my patrols when it’s raining can be quite peaceful…” He looked quite serene as he said this, his eyes unfocused, but pointed somewhere over my shoulder. But then his brow furrowed. “But when we are busy, and people are pushy and rude, no… I can’t say that I enjoy my job then.” I smiled at that; it could be the same answer that any number of people could give, regardless of their occupation.

“So what’s the deal with Barts then? I mean…” I shrugged absently, “not really quiet there, a bit of a mad house really…”

Wade laughed at this. “That is an understatement at times… Barts is just for the money… A friend of mine who used to work here got me the job. I took it on a few months ago when I moved back home to live with my parents. All to save for a trip. I want to go to the Galapagos, see the animals there for myself. I’ve heard it is beautiful! I’d love to be able to move there, or do conservation work, but I know that is just a dream…” He looked wistful.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this; I wanted to be encouraging but recognized that it likely was an unattainable dream. I shuffled along towards the next habitat, an exhibit with a Philipean Croc, a critically endangered species. The crock was partially submerged in a pool of water, seemingly asleep, although I didn’t believe for a second that that was true. I subtle vibration in the water would likely provoke a sudden full on attack by the croc. My thoughts were interrupted. “The largest captive crocodile recorded was a Philipean Croc. Unfortunately, it recently died in captivity.” Ward was full of factoids, the passion he felt towards the animals palpable.

In a rainforest themed enclosure, the next exhibit I focused on, there were small brightly colored frogs, blue and black, and yellow and black, and green and black. The sign said they were Poison Dart Frogs, the skin exuding a toxin in response to being touched. “So, if I were to pick up one of those guys, would it kill me?” 

Wade chuckled. “ _Those_ frogs, no. Dart Frogs are really interesting. The frogs don’t actually make the toxins. In the wild they eat insects, ants, beetles that contain toxins, and the frogs concentrate those toxins. Then, when they are touched or threatened, the poison is secreted. But in captivity, they don’t have access to the beetles and ants, the toxins, therefore they are not poisonous. Only the wild ones are.” I had to think about this for a minute, but he was right, it was quite interesting.

But I wanted to try to get more information from Wade. “So, have you gotten to know any of the staff at Barts?... I mean, they seem friendly enough to me.”

“Oh, that’s right… _you’re_ the new A  & E doctor. I knew your name sounded familiar…” He looked at me appraisingly. “Umm, yeah, I guess they are alright. My friend works there, introduced me to some people. And I like the boss well enough. But I don’t have much time for socializing, not with two jobs.”

“Who is your friend?”

“Oh, a guy named Gavin. Gavin Hayes. Nice guy.”

We continued walking on. I stopped next at the Galapagos Tortoises. I had always loved those gentle giants. They brought to mind the childhood story of the tortoise and the hair. “That is Dirk” Wade pointed at the largest of the three inhabitants, “and Delores, and Dolly.” He pointed to the other two. I was tickled that they had names. Wade’s full attention was on them. The tortoises were moving slowly within their habitat, ignoring the pile of vegetation that was their diet. Their steady and unhurried gait was mesmerizing. I just stood there, monitoring their progress as they walked, unaware of time ticking by. 

Wade interrupted my hypnotic trance. “Hey, you have to come see these!” I pulled myself away from the giant reptilian slowpokes. Wade was indicating a large glass enclosed dry river bed habitat with the largest reptiles in the world living inside: the Komodo dragons. “Komodo dragons are very dangerous… they bite their prey, and the bacteria in the saliva will eventually kill their victim. They can kill a buffalo, or even a human.” Wade’s enthusiasm was contagious, although a human predator would not be my favorite pet. The thought of dying from an overwhelming bacterial infection was not a pleasant one.

“What about some of the other poisonous creatures? Scorpions, spiders, tarantulas? Do you need antivenom for them?”

Wade gave me a smile. “Scorpions are not usually fatal to people. Their stings pack a wicked punch, I’ll give you that… Spiders like black widow and tarantulas also have a bigger reputation than they deserve. They kill their prey with venom, but people are too large to be killed by them.”

I suddenly became aware of time, and the realization that I had left Sherlock outside, although he could come in to the Reptile House at any time if he wished to. That is, if he heard me tell him where I was going when he was in his mist of thought. I indicated to Wade that I needed to return to Sherlock, and he admitted that he needed to continue his security patrol. We wormed our way through the crowd and back to the double doors at the front of the building.

Sherlock was exactly as we had left him, but he appeared to come to himself when I addressed him. “Sherlock, do you have any other questions for Mr. Wade before he goes?” Sherlock directed a steady gaze over Wade, then he just waved a hand in the air.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say, but I felt almost a need to apologize for Sherlock’s dismissal. “Emm, thank you Mr. Wade for your time.” I held out my hand.

Wade shook my hand, turned half way round as if to leave, but then redirected his attention at me. “I was thinking…” He started, hesitantly, “Would you like to go out for a drink with me sometime…?” I was temporarily dumb. If he had asked if I wanted to get a pint sometime I would not have hesitated. He seemed like a nice guy. But it was clear he wasn’t asking as a friend, but that he was asking me out, on a date.

I felt, rather than saw, Sherlock freeze. I stammered a bit, “Emm… to be honest… I’m really not looking for a relationship right now…” I realized immediately that, although true, that was not the real reason I was declining. I pointedly did not look at Sherlock, and I hoped that he did not take the excuse I was giving Wade to heart. It was true that I was not looking for a relationship, but I would consider one with Sherlock, as I found him brilliant, fascinating and frankly, very attractive.

“Oh… em, no, em, I meant just as friends, you know, just meet at a pub somewhere… Never mind…” I felt bad for the young man, a bit of an awkward situation for him. He was a nice guy, a bit young for me, but it really stinks to be turned down, especially with an audience, even though Sherlock was pretending to not hear anything. Ward looked down at his feet.

“Umm, right.” I said lamely. “Well, thanks again.” Wade looked up and smiled shyly at me, then trotted down the pathway deeper into the park. Sherlock, still pretending that he didn’t hear any of the exchange, started walking towards the exit. It took me a few steps to catch up. I wanted to tell him to forget what I told Wade about relationships, but it seemed a bit presumptive.

As we exited from the zoo and made our way towards and onto the outer circle, I relayed to Sherlock the conversation that I had with Wade, trying not to forget anything. I had just reached the end of my narrative when Sherlock said “excuse me”, reached into his coat pocket, pulled his mobile to his ear and announced “Sherlock Holmes.”

I had taken an extra step before realizing he had stopped walking, so I turned to face him. My eyes wandered around, and over Sherlock’s shoulder I saw a woman in a track suit, walking slowly. She stopped, grasped her side in pain, and splinted over. She straightened up a bit, then doubled over sharply. I stepped past Sherlock, and started towards her, and seeing the painful look on her face, I sped up my pace. Reaching her, I bent over slightly to speak to her. “Miss, are you okay?”

I felt a brush against my back trouser pocket and instinctively reached around and grabbed the wrist that was trying to pick pocket my wallet. In an instant, there was a flash of movement in front of me, and a sharp pain in my side which caused me wince. My fist tore out at his face, hitting him squarely in the jaw and spinning him around, and he recovered his balance and ran in the opposite direction. I turned to check on the young lady, but she had vanished. I knew that it had been a set-up.

Sweat starting collecting on my brow as I felt a wave of sudden heat pass through my body. My vision became narrowed, a sort of fuzzyness around the edges. I knew it was a vasovagal response, a physiological response to something that happened, a stressor, that I must have been stabbed, although I couldn’t feel the pain just then. Knowing the name of what was happening, a vasovagal response, and why it was happening didn’t stop it though. I scooted one foot farther away from the other and bent over, lowering my head slightly, and looked to the ground. A few deep breaths helped, and I felt my vision returning, and the heat wave passing. I slowly glanced up in Sherlock’s direction as I continued to take slow measured breaths.

He must not have been aware of what just happened as I saw him turn towards me as he pocketed his mobile. He looked angry, then confused, then concerned, and he slowly started towards me, his head tilting to one side.

I pressed my left forearm and elbow to my side, and the pain that had been temporarily dimmed resurfaced, first as more of a dull ache, then throbbing began. I gasped involuntarily, dropped my head again, and dipped to my knees. Suddenly Sherlock was in front of me asking “John, what’s wrong?” His voice quivered slightly, full of concern.

My voice temporarily failed me, and I had to take a few more deep breaths before I could try to answer again. “Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I tried to smile, but I knew that it must have been a hideous attempt based on Sherlock’s reaction. I saw him glance to the ground right next to me, and blanch. I followed his gaze and saw a small dark red puddle, and occasional expanding circles caused by droplets entering the pool. Suddenly I was aware of a warm wet sensation along my side, and my gaze was drawn there, but it was difficult to see any staining against the navy coloration of my jumper. That somehow made it seem less serious than the growing puddle indicated.

I started to right myself, and Sherlock grabbed my right elbow. “John, sit down.” When I didn’t, he commanded louder, “Sit. Down!”

“I’m alright.” But my voice and actions didn’t match my words. I allowed him to guide me to the ground, and I groaned as my abdominal muscles contracted in the effort to settle me. Sherlock pulled out his mobile. “What are you doing?” I fired.

“Calling an ambulance.”

“What?... No!... Why?...” I didn’t want to go in the back on an ambulance to a hospital. It was only a scratch after all, I knew it was. Forget the fact that I never even looked at it. Doctors know these things.

Sherlock gave information to the mouthpiece, pocketed the phone and looked at me. “What, are you going to _walk_ back to Baker Street? Or to the bus stop? John you’re bleeding! You need to be seen.” He gently placed one hand on the back of my head, and the other on the front of my chest, and tenderly guided me to a laying position. I relaxed back against the ground. It was less painful than trying to sit upright, especially without anything to lean against. “Now tell me what happened.” His eyes were anxious, and darted between my eyes and my side.

He listened while I recounted my brief encounter. “What did the man look like?”

I tried to remember, but all that I could see was a hoodie, and the point of a knife, which I told him.

Sherlock crouched down onto his knees next to me and ordered me to move my arm away from the injury. He lifted up my jumper and t-shirt and quickly pressed them back again, careful not to screw up his face. “What? What do you see?” I asked.

Sherlock shook his head and simply said, “Too much blood to tell.” He tried to smile, but it looked forced and pained.

I knew the knife was too small to do too much damage, or at least I hoped so, although I recognized that my judgment, my thinking and reasoning skills, were impaired. From the amount of blood that was pooling, I suspected that the knife had hit a vessel in the muscle (or again, I hoped so), which could pose a problem if you didn’t get the bleeding under control. But this was London, not some hole-in-the-wall out of the way outback, so it would be fine.

I started to feel tired, and my breaths were coming harder. I was concentrating on slowing my breathing. One thing that I did not want was to incite a panic attack, but this didn’t feel like a panic attack. I noticed that now that my breathing was more difficult; it meant that I was using some of my abdominal muscles to aid my respirations, and that _hurt_. Core muscles. They were right about that. It seems you couldn’t do much without them. I felt Sherlock press harder on my side, a sudden ambush of painful sensations, and I hitched my breath. I closed my eyes, and I immediately heard a panicked, “John!”

“’S okay.” I said, but it came out more as a whisper. I knew my blood pressure was dropping, my heart rate speeding up. It’s really an odd sensation knowing what was happening, why it was happening, and still be unable to control any of it.

I didn’t hear the sirens or the approach of the vehicle. What I did feel was a sudden bump to my entire body. My eyes didn’t want to open, but I forced them, and there were two strange faces close to me, their hands working expertly around me. I could not feel anything, and I didn’t have the strength to speak, but I knew instinctively they were inserting in IV line and trying to control the bleeding. 

My whole body shook, and next I knew I was in a small space, the inside of an ambulance I surmised, and I saw Sherlock in the corner, his eyes locked on me in intense concentration. I was feeling slightly more aware, the result of a bolus of IV fluids I told myself.

I closed my eyes again, and the vehicle shook some more. I heard doors slam shut, and a sudden chill to my body as I was pushed outside and whisked into the A & E.

The lights were intense, and when I tried to open my eyes I found their brightness overwhelming. The voices sounded far away, like I was in a dream, or maybe like I was blindingly drunk. Someone was asking me questions, which I think I tried to answer, but I’m not certain. Everything after that was a blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to the London Zoo, so please be lenient regarding my interpretation of what it is like. I tried to make it as real as I could by using research, their web site, etc.
> 
> Also, a nod to Rupert Graves, who is in _Death at a Funeral_


	4. Information Exchange

I heard it again. My mobile? My alarm? What was it? The doorbell? No. Not the doorbell.

Rhythmic. Familiar. Somehow soothing. I tried to open my eyes, but it was so difficult. My lids were heavy. Pressure on my hand, my fingers. Someone holding my hand? No, who would be doing that?

“Dr. Watson?... Dr. Watson?!” A voice, not familiar. I concentrated hard, and managed to pry my lids open.

Darkened room. Laying down, tired, very tired. Who is it? Someone shaking my right shoulder. Focus. A woman, in scrubs. Do I know her?

“Dr. Watson?” The voice was softer now. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. I thought back to what I could last remember. The London Zoo… walking out… woman in pain… then I was in pain… stabbed?

I focused on the woman in front of me. She was vaguely familiar, smiling at me in a friendly way. She removed her hand from my shoulder. “Dr. Watson. It’s nice to see you, although if you wanted to visit us, you didn’t have to come by ambulance.” She winked.

My face must have conveyed the confusion I felt. “You’re at Barts. Looks like you were out having fun… you got stabbed and had to have surgery to repair your wound. Don’t worry love, you’re going to be fine. I’ll get Dr. Newton and he can tell you more.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and you have a visitor.” Her face nodded towards the other side of the room. I glanced over, and in a chair next to my bed (how could I have missed him?) was Sherlock Holmes.

I was surprised. Why was he here? He didn’t need to stay. Not that I was complaining. Actually, I was quite chuffed now that I thought about it. I smiled. “Hey.” Or at least that is what I tried to say. My throat was sore from the endotracheal tube that they must have used when they patched me up. What really came out was more of a gravely moan, which made me smile and chuckle. The chuckle, now turned cough, scratched at my throat more, and the coughing continued on. I concentrated on slowing my breaths to stop the cough, not realizing that Sherlock was now close at my side, eyes wide, until I managed to control the tickle. The concern in his eyes was apparent, and there was a fluttering in my stomach.

Just then, Dr. Newton stormed into the room, and the moment was broken. “John! Good to see you… or should I say that I’m glad that you can see me!” He laughed at his own joke. Still woozy from the anesthetic, I struggled to control my muscles, and managed to hold out my hand to him, the one without the IV in it. “How are you feeling?”

This time I tested my voice before answering. “Like shite.” I said it with a dry smile, so Dr. Newton chuckled.

“I can imagine… You’re probably going to feel that way for a while, but we can get you something to help with that.”

I shook my head. “No, not necessary.”

He smiled skeptically. “You say that now, but it’ll get worse. The anesthetic hasn’t worn off yet.”

It was my turn to smile. “I’ve had worse.” Dr. Newton’s glance went to my bare shoulder, the one with the dramatic scar that ended my military career, and he nodded.

“I see…” I was not certain that he did. He seemed to be the pampered type, surrounded by luxury and coziness. I was sure he couldn’t imagine what would possess a person to spend years in temporary housing and bases, deploying to foreign lands to fight camouflaged opponents that looked the same as your allies. Patching up young lives, many now missing limbs, or burned, or scarred in ways that people couldn’t see. I was sure he didn’t understand at all.

“Well John, I’m not exactly sure how you managed it, but guy got you with a good one. Nicked your left external iliac artery. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d have explored if he hadn’t also lacerated some superficial vessels in your obliques. That is where the blood that the paramedics saw came from.” It was the easy banter common between medico. “But when I got those stopped, I did a quick digital exam of the knife track, and I found hemoabdomen. So we went in, found the source and fixed you up. It was a near miss, where he got you… but I don’t need to tell you that.” 

No, he didn’t need to tell me. There were lots of large vessels very close to the knife. If he’d have moved the knife even a bit more I’d likely have bled out. I was quite lucky I didn’t anyways.

“So, how long are you going to keep me here?” I had had enough of being a patient after being shot in the shoulder. I had no desire to remain any longer than I needed to.

He shrugged. “You know the answer to that as well as I do. It depends…” It depends on how I respond, how the wound looks, if any complications arise… in other words, he didn’t know.

“I’ll check back in on you later, John.” The doctor scurried out of the room. I closed my eyes and relaxed my head onto the pillow, then remembered Sherlock.

I turned my head, smiled, and looked at the attentive face. God he was gorgeous, his blue eyes wide in concern, the shadows highlighting his remarkable cheekbones, his cupids bows lips barely parted… I thought I could stare at that face forever. I knew I must be smiling like a teenaged school girl. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The corner of his mouth turned up a bit. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” His hand went to the side rail that was still up from the transport to the room, and rested there. I wanted to reach out and take his hand, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since we brought you in… do you remember any of it?”

I thought about it for a minute. Looking around for some water, but seeing none, I had to swallow a few times to wet my dry throat. “Bits.” Most of the memories, after checking on the young lady who feigned an episode of illness, were dreamlike and far away. I chuckled. “I remembered telling you not to call an ambulance. I’m glad you’re a stubborn git and called anyways.”

Sherlock grinned. “They always say doctors make the worst patients.” My eyelids were again becoming heavy, and Sherlock noticed. “I called Lestrade, and he’ll be by tomorrow for a statement.” I marveled at the rapid role reversal I had managed. From doctor to patient, and from investigator to victim.

“Not much of a help to you now, am I?” I took a deep breath, as much of a breath as I could take with a dressing wrapped tightly around my abdomen, and stared up at the ceiling. “We were going to interview one more person today, weren’t we? You should be going on with it.” I was disappointed, feeling even more worthless than I did the day before. Surely this would be the end of my micro-career as a detective’s assistant. Maybe Sherlock would even rethink his offer of being flat mates.

His hand joined with mine, and I had to actually look to confirm that I wasn’t imagining it. Then my eyes went to his. “I’ll go and interview Emily Dodd. She was Chambers’ girlfriend…” Then, as if he had read my mind, he continued. “You’ll need some clean clothes too. If you give me you keys, I’ll stop by your place and pack a suitcase. That is, if you are still up for flat sharing…” I nodded, almost in disbelief. If this was a dream, it was a very strange one. “I’ll be back tomorrow and we can talk with Lestrade about the case.” I suddenly felt lighter in my heart than I thought possible. He squeezed my hand, then started to rise.

“I’ll get you my address.” I offered, my voice growing hoarse.

“No need.” I looked at the detective, who was smiling at me. Of course he knew where I lived. The man was a genius, and I offered to give him my address. Stupid. I closed my eyes, and the residual effects of the anesthetics did their work.

**

I slept fitfully the rest of the night, being interrupted every few hours by nurses. By the time morning came around, I was more exhausted than the day before, and I was ready to go home, although I knew Newton wouldn’t allow it yet. The sheets on the bed came up to my waist, partially covering my dressing. I wasn’t wearing a hospital gown, just my pants, I learned as I looked beneath the sheets.

IV fluids have one notable unwanted side effect, and that is urination. I had to pee, and bad. I looked at the over the bed table next to the bed and saw the plastic urinal, and relieved myself.

I raised the back of the bed so that I was partially sitting up, and was fighting my boredom by picking at the plaster around my abdomen. It would need to be changed anyways, so I started unwrapping it to get a personal look at it.

I didn’t get far when the nurse Nicole, I finally remembered her name, brought in breakfast. It was not at all appetizing, as much my stomachs fault as the foods, but I thanked her none the less. “Your friend’s not here?” She asked.

“Sherlock? No. He’ll be by later.”

“He was awfully worried about you yesterday. Wouldn’t leave the staff alone asking about you. We finally let him sit in here just to get him out of the waiting room; other visitors were getting upset. The paramedics mentioned that he was quite stubborn, insisting on riding in the ambulance, but we had no idea what a handful he’d be… You have a good friend there doc.” She had a sparkle in her eye. A warmth starting growing in my cheeks, and I was glad he wasn’t there to see me blush. It made me giddy inside knowing that he considered me a friend, or at least someone that he cared about enough to be concerned about.

One of the other nurses popped her head in the door and spoke to Nicole. “Are you going to quiz night tomorrow?” 

Nicole responded in the positive. Then she explained to me. “It’s a standing date, anyone is welcome. We meet at the pub on the corner for quiz night. Usually there are ten or twelve of us there each week.” She started to disconnect the IV line from my catheter, and flush out the catheter. I hate being hooked up to a line, it restricts mobility, so I was glad that the umbilical cord was being cut.

“How come I’ve been working here for six or seven weeks and I never heard about it?” It wasn’t an accusation, just a question.

It was Nicole’s turn to blush. “Well, it’s just that, well, the doctors usually don’t do things with the rest of us. They tend to keep to themselves. So everyone probably assumed that you wouldn’t be interested…. Would you? You could bring your friend too if you wanted.” She looked hopeful.

I considered. “Yeah, I just might do that… Sounds like it could be fun. What time do you meet?”

She grinned broadly. “Great! Quiz usually starts around nine. Some people get there around eight, others later. Just when ever you want.” She had to get along with her rounds, but there was definitely a bounce to her step when she left.

I looked again at the food on the tray, and pushed it away.

**

It was early afternoon when DI Lestrade knocked on the side of the door. The door itself was open, so he was just being polite. “Hey there, Dr. Watson.”

“John, please.”

“Right…” His gaze went to my plaster, still half unwrapped, and then to the scar on my shoulder. People were always fascinated by that scar. It didn’t bother me that they stared. I always found it a bit amusing when someone was embarrassed by their own curiosity. Lestrade seemed to just note it, and move on with his thoughts.

“I’m here to take a statement about what happened yesterday. Do you remember any of it?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. Looking about, he pulled a plastic chair a bit closer and lowered himself, then he focused his attention on me.

I told him all that I remembered, which wasn’t that much. Although I couldn’t give a very accurate description of the pick pocket, the man who stabbed me, I was able to describe his accomplice, the young woman, quite well. Lestrade then told me that there had been no similar incidents reported in the area, but victims likely were pick pocketed, and didn’t even know the woman was involved in the scam. Now the police could warn people about the duo, and ask for anyone to report if they had seen this woman, or helped the woman and later found their valuables missing.

Sherlock had sidled in sometime during Lestrade’s questions, laid my suitcase in the wardrobe, and seated himself in the chair he had claimed as his own. Now Lestrade turned to him. “So Sherlock, you heard most of what John said, what can you add?”

Sherlock looked around, then stared up at the ceiling. “I didn’t see anything.” He mumbled. 

“What?... Are you _serious_ Sherlock?” Lestrade was incredulous. “No facts, no observations, no deductions? Were you even there!?”

“Yes I was there.” He answered testily. “I was distracted. Call from Mycroft.” He looked at me to explain. “My brother. Tried to get me to take a case.” Then he turned back to Lestrade. “My back was to them the whole time. They were gone by the time I looked. I had no idea anything had happened until John… until I saw John.”

Lestrade was almost gleeful. “Maybe I should call in Anderson to collect evidence.”

“Shut up!”

That outburst from Sherlock almost caused me to laugh out loud, but he was obviously perturbed, and I didn’t want to upset him any more than he was. Lestrade, on the other hand, chuckled. “All right then.” He looked at me. “I don’t know if we’ll get him or not, but at least now we can warn people and see if anyone else has encountered this duo.” He closed his notebook and slid it into his pocket.

I settled my head back on my pillow, and adjusted myself, being a bit stiff from laying around for a full day. Moving put some stress on the sutures in my side, but the pain really was minor compared to what I had been through in Afghanistan. I could actually feel the strands of suture pulling against the skin. But what was more painful was the contracture of my abdominal muscles when I shifted. The torn and sutured muscle was intensely sensitive when the muscle worked. When I was done I saw that both Lestrade and Sherlock had been watching me. “I’m good.” I pasted a smile on my face. It was time to change the subject, to distract. “How did the interview go today with Miss Dodd?” I was looking at Sherlock. He gave me a look which told me that he knew what I was doing, but he answered anyways.

“We need to exchange information with Lestrade, so I’ll tell you about it when we reach that point.” I nodded. “Lestrade, would you summarize where we are at so far?”

Sherlock sunk deeper into the chair, and rocked back onto the rear legs, pushing off the bed with his feet. His fingers were steepled in front of his chin. He looked up at the ceiling and Lestrade began to speak. “Alistair Chambers, aged twenty eight, apparently liked by everyone, was killed at work, here at Barts, on Monday. We know he was killed at or near his desk, supported by the blood found on the floor. Molly has confirmed it is human, and we are awaiting the profile to confirm it was from Chambers. We should have the results within a few days. Molly has it tagged as priority.”

Sherlock nodded absently, his eyes still focused at the ceiling, and Lestrade continued, “Suspects have been narrowed down to those who were known to have been with him or near him that day, although we can not rule out other suspects entirely. There is no CCTV coverage for the administrative areas, which is where his cubicle was.” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing it was a holiday, with minimal staff. I’d hate to have to rule out a full staff.”

Sherlock rocked back and forth a few times, his eyes never straying from their focus on the ceiling. “That gives us six suspects to focus on,” Lestrade continued. “Emily Dodd, Zoe Hackett and Robert Mackay all worked in the vicinity of Chamber’s cubicle. The security man, Conner Wade, and two maintenance men, Gavin Hayes, and Kyle  
Baird.”

“Gavin Hayes was sick that day.” I interjected. “Migraine.”

“So he wasn’t at Barts at all on Monday?” Lestrade asked.

“That’s right. Well, that’s what he said. I don’t know if anyone has confirmed it yet.” At least my brain was working somewhat.

Sherlock added, “I checked his alibi. No one saw him at his flat; he lives alone. But no one saw him here either.”

Lestrade nodded. “So Sherlock, any ideas on who we need to focus on? Any little clues that you could give us would be appreciated.” He looked hopeful, like a kid waiting for a hint to solve a puzzle.

Sherlock continued to rock on the chair legs. “There are… certain indications.”

“Care to share them?”

Sherlock appeared not to hear. I had my own thoughts, and since Sherlock was not talking, I thought I’d give my opinion. “None of them seem very likely to me. But if I had to put my money on one, I’d have to say Conner Wade, the security man. He works at the zoo, and knows a lot about venoms and poisons, and would have access to them. Seems like a nice guy, but you never can tell, can you.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, as if hoping for a confirmation or denial of my theory. When none came, he threw out another thought. “What would the motive be?”

I waited a moment, but Sherlock was still focused on the ceiling, so I started talking again. “Right… em… not sure. What are the usual motives? Love? Greed? Jealousy? I can’t see how any of those would fit, for any of the suspects. I mean, it seems like everyone liked Chambers… If we look specifically at Wade, love is out.”

Lestrade looked at me. “How do you figure that?”

I felt my face go red. Danm it, why does that always happen? “It doesn’t look like he was interested in Chambers’ girlfriend Emily. It could have been a one sided attraction to Chambers, I guess, unrequited love?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lestrade’s confusion, so I knew I’d have to give it up. “Well, em… he sort of asked me out yesterday.” I couldn’t look at Lestrade, who guffawed.

“He’s a bit young for you, don’t you think?”

“A bit… that’s an understatement.” I agreed, letting the blush in my face fade a bit.

“There is no accounting for taste.” Lestrade teased.

“Shut up!” I countered, good naturedly, but there was nothing within my reach that I could throw at him.

“Well, that doesn’t rule out love as a motive, but there is no indication _for_ it either. So, if we concentrate on Wade, he had means, access to venom. Motive, unknown, yet to be determined. And he had opportunity, he walks around at will, no one questions his presence, hell, no one would likely even notice if he walked by. So tell me, doctor, which of the venoms would fit the bill? Maybe we can test specifically for it if we narrow it down.”

I admit he had me there. I didn’t have a specific venom in mind. In fact, none of the venoms or toxins that I knew about seemed to fit the bill. But Lestrade had not had the benefit of hearing what Wade had said, and he was not there when I reported the conversation to Sherlock, so I decided to fill him in on some of the specifics. “Most of the venoms have intense local reactions at the bite, or in this case, the prick sight. For example, many of the snake venoms have necrotoxins in them that cause the tissue to swell, bruise and die, and are incredibly painful. Likewise, there are intense local reactions for scorpion stings, and many bites of spiders. For some of the snake bites, some of the vipers, there may be little to no local reaction, but those venoms are neurotoxins, and the method of death is usually suffocation, the respiratory muscles become paralyzed and the victim unable to breathe. We didn’t see any evidence of suffocation in Chambers. The cause of death was likely heart problems. And then there are the nasty bacteria in the mouth of the Komodo, but that causes death by overwhelming bacterial infection. Not our MOD. So the connection is tenuous at best. But honestly, it almost has to be a venom or toxin or poison of some kind.”

Lestrade was taking all the information in, and thinking about it. I let him process the information and kept quiet for a while.

Finally Lestrade asked, “What else did you find out about Wade?”

I shrugged. “Not much. He wants to visit the Galapagos Islands, is saving money for that, so he works the two jobs and lives at home. He drinks… seeing as he asked me to have a drink with him.” I shot Lestrade a look that silently told him to shut up. “He’s been at Barts a few months, a friend got him the job.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, suddenly looking hard at me.

I had almost forgotten he was there. I would have sworn that he wasn’t listening. “I didn’t ask. We can follow up with him and find out. Why… is it important?”

Sherlock’s shoulders went up and down. “Not sure.” He tented his fingers in front of his chin and returned his focus to the ceiling.

The three of us sat in quiet, each lost in his own thoughts. As for myself, I was trying to see who else might have a reason to kill Chambers. Then I remembered that I hadn’t heard about the Dodd interview.

“So, you said that you were going to tell us about the Emily Dodd interview.” I was looking at Sherlock. He didn’t move his eyes from where they were focused on the ceiling, but he took a breath and started speaking. “Dull. Young woman, terribly emotional, a nightmare. Hasn’t been back to work since Monday. She saw him when he came into work Monday just before eight AM, had coffee with Chambers in the cafeteria, he walked her to her desk. They were going to have lunch together but he called and said he had too much work to do, which wasn’t unusual for him to do. That is her entire alibi. They have been dating a few weeks, not serious she says.” He stopped looking at the ceiling and leaned forward, rocking the chair back onto four legs. “Not our murderer. Not smart enough to pull it off.”

At that moment, an older, heavy set nurse, who frankly reminded me of a drill sergeant I knew, came into the room and announced that she needed to change my dressing. Lestrade took this as a good excuse to get coffee, and he asked Sherlock if he would like one as well. The two of them left the room and left me to the nurse’s ministrations. She deftly cut through the dressing, noting the spots where I had pulled at the tape.

She lectured me on leaving my plaster alone, but I ignored her, barely resisting the urge of telling her off, but it was fortunate that I didn’t. Once the pressure of the wrap was released, the sutures pulled much more and it made breathing and moving more painful. I was thankful she was practiced in changing the bandages because she put one on as quickly as she took the old one off. The incision had looked a bit raw, but overall I was pleased with the suturing that Dr. Newton had done.

When she was done she helped me slip a hospital gown on, which I hadn’t worn until that time, and tied it tightly around me. Then she thrust a thermometer in my mouth, applied the blood pressure cuff, inflated it, and took a reading. Her fingers deftly removed the cuff, and the thermometer from my lips, and recorded both readings. Satisfied, she finally left me alone. I didn’t realize how much the morning’s activities had fatigued me, until I was woken a half an hour later by a gentle hand on my forearm. “John… John.”

I slowly opened my eyes to see Sherlock above me, his piercing blue eyes focused on mine, softly but urgently saying my name. Not thinking, I tried to sit up quickly, and was immediately rewarded by a pain low in my abdomen, forcing me back down. My head landed hard on the pillow and I groaned.

Lestrade’s eyes got wide for a moment, but seeing that I didn’t continue my protestations, he quickly updated me. “John, I just got a call from my Sergeant, Sally Donovan. There has been another death… Conner Wade was found dead in the Reptile House of the London Zoo.”


	5. Bored

I couldn’t believe my ears… Conner Wade dead? “Was it murder?”

“We don’t know. We just got the word that he was found dead. We are going to the scene.” Damn it. I really wanted to go with them, but I knew I wouldn’t be allowed. But I was going to try. I took a deep breath, and swung my legs to the side of the bed, slipping down onto my feet. “Hey… Hey, wait a minute, what are you doing?” Lestrade held his hand up with his palm in my direction, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and me, as if looking for backup from the man.

“I’m going with you.”

“No you’re not. You’re staying here.”

“I don’t need to stay here.” I said indignantly, walking towards the wardrobe where my newly deposited suitcase lay. Sherlock put his body between me and the wardrobe.

“John… You need to stay here and heal… The body will be brought back here and I’ll need you to look at it in the morgue. You won’t be missing anything important.” His hand was on my arm, and his eyes were pleading with me. Oh god, how could I argue with those eyes!

I knew he was right, but I hated to admit it. I sighed loudly, but gave in. “Okay… I’ll stay here. But I don’t like it…” I walked back to the side of the bed, careful not to show any signs of slowness or pain, hopped back onto the bed (ouch!), and sat there. There was no way I was going to lay down right now and give in to the invalid characterization. Sherlock and Lestrade both watched me, as if they expected another vie for freedom. I saw Sherlock’s eye take in my form, covered only by the hospital gown, and noticed that the corner of his mouth went up on one side. I wasn’t feeling particularly jovial, so I didn’t return the smile.

My irritation at being left behind prevented me from being able to relax, so I did not lay down in the bed. I slipped back to the floor, landing softly on my bare feet and sat in the cushioned chair next to the bed. There were no magazines, books, or anything else to read, and I had no interest in turning on the telly, so I stood and started pacing. Then I decided _to hell with it_ , and I rifled through my suitcase, found a dressing gown and slippers, and slipped into them. I searched for a pen and paper, and scribbled a note to Sherlock and Lestrade that I was in the cafeteria, and left it on the bed. Although it was meant for the two detectives, I knew it would prevent anyone from sounding the panic alarm if I was thought to be missing. Pinning my left arm protectively against my body, I strode to the lift and went down to the cafeteria.

I realized when I got to the cafeteria that it would have been a better idea to dress in street clothes. I got a number of stares from visitors, and even from some of the staff that didn’t know me, not surprising, since I was attired in a dressing gown and slippers in the middle of a hospital cafeteria. It’s not that I was self conscious or modest, far from it. But I still resented the unwanted attention. I got a coffee and feeling a bit peckish, grabbed a sarnie as well. It was an improvement from what they tried to serve me in my room.

As I sipped on my coffee, glancing at the people around me and sorting out whether they were visitors, patients or staff, I looked up and in walked Gavin Hayes, the young maintenance man who had the migraine the day of the murder. I held up my hand at him in greeting. His face looked confused, and he came over to chat. “Dr. Watson, isn’t it? What’s this?” He indicated my dressing gown, with a hospital gown visible at the neckline.

I rolled my eyes, not particularly happy to talk about myself. “Had an accident.” I said vaguely. His face cleared a bit and he nodded. “It’s just odd to see you in a gown. I’ve seen you in scrubs, but this is the opposite spectrum.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just sipped on my coffee again.

“Are you on break?” I asked, making small talk.

“Yep. I’m halfway through my day. Let me get some tea and I’ll join you.” I nodded and he ambled off to the counter, speaking with the young lady behind it as she reached for the kettle.

Gavin returned and pulled up a chair across from me. As he was settling in, a bobble of red hair suddenly appeared next to me, setting tea and crisps down before laying an arm around my shoulder. I looked up and Zoe Hackett was hovering quite close to my face. I wanted to shutter at the touch, but I refrained. With her face so close, I could see the uneven foundation makeup that she used to try to hide her emerging wrinkles. “Hi Doc.” Her voice was low, like she was trying to make it sound sexy and seductive.

Not giving me a chance to reply, her excitement overrode her attempt at an alluring voice, and as she lowered herself into a chair she started blabbering. “Did you hear the news? I thought maybe you had, given that you’re a doctor, but maybe you haven’t. But you see a friend of mine works at the met, and she took the call, and another guy is dead.” Her eyes darted from one to the other of us, hoping for a dramatic reaction. “You know, the one guy died last Monday here, and today they found another, only it wasn’t here, it was somewhere else, the zoo I think, not sure why, but that is where they found him, only he works here too, I think she said he was a security guard.”

She didn’t take a breath once. I didn’t think anyone could talk so much and say so little.

Gavin Hayes was looking at her dumbfounded, as if what she said made no sense at all. I have to admit, it wouldn’t have made much sense to me either if I hadn’t already known about it. Zoe looked quite pleased with herself, thriving on the attention, as little as it was, that she was getting.

As if suddenly realizing something, she looked at her watch and screeched that she had to get back to work, and flitted out of there as quickly as she came in. My mind was still spinning as I looked at Gavin. His eyes were wide, and his eyebrows rose as he looked at me. “What was that about?” 

I raised my shoulders and let them fall. “I think she said something about a security guard dying, if I understood her right.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Gavin replied. “Did you ever notice how most security guards are older overweight guys? Probably had a heart attack. Out of shape.”

“So you wouldn’t have known him?”

“No. Most of our security people don’t last long. Too many drunk people in A & E… well you know about that… and then they have to help hold down the combative patients. Not a fun job. I don’t even bother introducing myself to them anymore… I know I probably won’t see them again.”

It was rather a grim perspective, especially for someone so young, but I had to admit he had a point. Emotions run high in a hospital, and a security man would see the worst of them.

I saw him glance down at his watch, a Rolex, and my eyebrows must have furrowed. Gavin followed my gaze. “I got it when my Aunt and Uncle passed last year. They left me a legacy, and I got this to remember them by.” Such a luxurious watch was beyond my tastes, but everyone mourns their losses differently.

“It was quite sudden. He died first, a heart attack. He was in his sixties. Then, a few weeks later… she followed. They said she died of a broken heart. They were so close, married for forty years, and they did everything together. I’ve heard people say that, died of a broken heart, but I never knew anyone that that happened to before them.”

I took a bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly. It was the first solid food that I had since early the day before. My stomach groaned slightly with my first swallow. “My grandfather had a pocket watch that I inherited when he died. I’ve never really worn it, not my style. But I know what you mean. I can’t see it without remembering him, and all the things we used to do… all the stories he told that had to be only half true.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

I felt a hand land on my shoulder, and I raised my chin to see who it belonged to. The dark hair, dirt brown eyes and handlebar mustache could only belong to one man. “Evan!” I held out my hand, and he shook it.

“Doc… What… you love your work so much you decided to move in here?” He was looking at my slippers. Evan was a nurse on the shift that I had been assigned to. I had worked with him for the past two months. “I heard that you were here. We miss you in A & E… They gave us a green locum doctor… I’m not saying any more about him. But all of us are looking forward to your return. Not every doctor can keep their cool like you, and then bark out orders like a general.” He was grinning.

“A captain.” I corrected him and he roared.

“A captain! I should have known it! It suits you… it really does.” A smile was never far from his face.

“I hope they take me back. I’m only locum myself, I’ve not been hired. But I miss you clowns too.” I returned the smile. He clapped me on the back and wished me well before striding to the door and depositing his mug on an empty round tray.

I slowly chewed a few more bites of my sandwich, finally giving up as my stomach was protesting the new additions. My coffee was getting cold, and I leaned back in my chair. “I’m going to go crazy in this place. I wish I had my laptop here.” I shook my head wistfully, and looked around the cafeteria just for something to do.

“I could get you one to use, from the IT department, if you like. They have some there for people to use when they need to.”

“Oh! But you don’t have to do that, I can go and get one.”

“They don’t have anyone here today- the door will be locked. But I have access. That’s one benefit to being in maintenance, access to every door in the hospital… well, except for the pharmacy. I don’t have clearance for the pharmacy.”

He must have seen the confused look on my face. “Maintenance has to have access to any part of the building that has wires, ducts or pipes, anywhere there is plumbing, heating or electrical, just in case something goes wrong or needs to be repaired.” I nodded.

He stood up. “My break is almost over, so I’ll run and get you the laptop.” He was off before I could say anything. After I looked at my sandwich and coffee my stomach gave a little hiccup, so I unceremoniously dumped them both in the bin, and returned to my table.

It only took Gavin a couple minutes to retrieve the laptop. “Here you are doc. I have this same model at home, so I’m fairly familiar with it. If you need any help with it, just let me know… I’ll find you before I go home and return the laptop. That’ll be in about four hours.” Gavin gave me a quick wave as he left the cafeteria.

I thought I’d be bored after four hours with a borrowed laptop. I started by checking my e-mail, and after not finding anything interesting, I moved on to researching anything I could think of related to the case. I looked at the zoo’s web site, trying to find information on which poisonous animals they housed; I researched venoms and toxins from those animals. I refreshed my memory on various classes of cardiac drugs, their effects and side effects, and looked up drugs that may have cardiac side effects. I found many popular and some obscure medical journals on these topics, and often got side tracked by interesting but unrelated articles on various conditions. It had been a long time since I did a thorough search on such a wide range of topics. I could have continued longer, but before I realized it, Gavin was back, indicating it had been four hours, and he needed to return the laptop to IT.

**

Back in my room, I relaxed in the bed, arms folded behind my head, and thought about the information that I had read on the computer. Try as I may, I couldn’t come up with a reasonable theory about how Alistair Chambers was killed, or why. My abdomen was a little sore, but as I had spent the past half of the day leaning over a computer, I was not surprised.

Dr. Newton checked in on me, and I talked him into letting me go home. Since I hadn’t actually been in my room for half the day, he couldn’t argue that I needed to be there. However, I did agree to allow him to see the incision before I left, and he called Nicole the nurse, and relayed the instructions. I was relieved that I would be allowed to leave, as the hospital really is the worst place for a sick person to be. There are so many infections floating around, despite the best attempts at keeping them at bay through hygiene and infection control protocols.

Nicole came in, and helped remove the dressing. The other nurse had done a thorough job wrapping me up, so it took a bit of cutting and unwrapping before the site was clear. The incision looked much as it did earlier in the day, and after Dr. Newton was satisfied, the dressing was reapplied. I thanked Newton once again, and hoped that I wouldn’t see him, as a patient at least, any time soon.

**

It had been five or six hours since Sherlock and Lestrade left for the latest crime scene and I was fidgeting with everything I could get my hands on, which wasn’t much. Nicole lent me a few magazines from the nurse’s lounge, and offered the use of her phone, but I didn’t have anyone I needed to call. I had tried to focus on the telly, but my thoughts kept returning to the information that I had researched on the internet. I had already changed into street clothes, my suitcase packed up and ready to go, and Nicole had been in with final discharge instructions and antibiotics to go home with me. 

Finally I head some footsteps slow outside the room, and I drew myself up and turned up the light from the controller by my left arm. Sherlock’s face peered around the corner of the door, and seeing that I was awake, signaled to Lestrade to follow him in. The two men sauntered into my room, and my attire told them that I was ready to go.

**

Halfway down the stairs to the morgue, I had to stop and regain my breath. I was glad that Sherlock had insisted on carrying my suitcase and wouldn’t let me argue with him. But their rapid pace, especially down the stairs, had left me behind, as I moved slowly, protecting my side as I went. I heard the door downstairs re-open and a few steps on the stairs before hearing Lestrade’s apology “Erm… You okay John?… I should have taken the lift, sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” I thought I heard Sherlock’s voice utter “obviously”, and Lestrade turned his head and replied “shut up”.

I took a few breaths, relaxed as best I could, and continued my trek down the stairs. Lestrade was holding the fire break metal door open for me, not meeting my eyes, and I passed through. I hated feeling like an invalid.

Sherlock’s eyes were kind, and he waited for me to catch up, and we walked down the stairs shoulder to shoulder, occasionally bumping against each other comfortably, our pace slow but steady. Lestrade walked a pace behind us. 

The morgue appeared quickly. Dr. Hooper was apparently waiting, her smile shy as she looked at Sherlock, and she stammered “Emm… he’s over there… I haven’t… I haven’t cut into him or anything yet…” Her eyes darted to him, then back to the floor several times, as if waiting for approval.

Sherlock deposited my suitcase near the door, and with his long strides, quickly erased the distance between himself and the corpse. He looked up at Molly, and she rapidly hopped to his side, and slid the white sheet back from over the body. I smiled at how Sherlock commanded Molly’s every attention.

Sherlock donned a pair of nitrile gloves and peered around the body from every angle, examining and lifting the hands and feet to look at the fingers and toes, opened the mouth and swept a finger through, then snapped them off and into the bin. “I need to see his effects.”

Molly scuttled to another room and returned with a plastic bag with clothes, a phone, keys, torch, cap and wallet in it. He went through each item meticulously, checking the pockets, and flipping through the wallet. He looked up at me, his head nodding towards the corpse and said “John.”

“Oh, right.” I padded over to the body, inserted my hands into a pair of nitrile gloves and did a quick exam. “Emm… late twenties… fairly fit… no external signs of trauma except for some cuts on his palms, no signs of suffocation… very much like the last body actually.” I looked to Sherlock for confirmation. 

He simply nodded, folding his hands in front of his chin in his characteristic pose, and looked off to a blank wall. After a few moments, he turned around, causing his coat to billow out behind him, and strode over to Molly’s office. “Molly, I want an analysis of the residue on the body’s palms, and _don’t touch it with out gloves,_. That is important. Your life may depend on it… And I _need_ the results of the profile from the first body, and the needle track.”

“Oh, emm… right…. Actually I wasn’t able to get anything from the needle track… You said it was a long shot anyways… didn’t you?... and… emm… the DNA profile…. Here.” Molly grabbed a piece of paper from her desk and flung out her hand with it.

Sherlock took the paper, glanced at it, nodded, and handed it back. Lestrade waited a moment, then asked “Our victim’s blood?” Sherlock simply nodded. “Alright then… we can officially call it a murder.” Lestrade reached into his pocket, raised his mobile to his ear and spoke into it.

All I had done all day was sit at a computer, but suddenly sitting was what I wanted to do again. It was maddening how a small wound could sap the energy out of me. It reminded me of what it was like recovering from my shoulder wound, only a smaller version of it. I was definitely too old to be doing this again.

There were no chairs in the morgue, only stainless steel tables that were easily moved and scrubbed down. I shuffled to Molly’s office, entered, and plopped into a chair. Molly looked at me for a moment, and gave me a smile. Not the same smile she gave Sherlock, that one was shy and genuine, this smile was a bit more forced, the smile given to people you don’t know well.

“It’s just… my side…” I said lamely

“I know, it’s okay…”

Sherlock had followed me in, his eyes rolling over me, no doubt deducing something, and Lestrade was glancing in our direction. Lestrade took the lead. “Maybe it’s time we got you home John. Want a ride?”

I took a deep breath, and rose to my feet. “Yeah, all right.” I started towards the door, aware that I probably was looking a bit rough.

“Where do you live?”

It was a simple question, but it caught me a bit off guard. Sherlock noticed, and answered for me. “Baker Street… He’s moving in with me.”

Lestrade froze for a moment and looked at Sherlock incredulously, like the man had lost his mind. Then, realizing he was staring, he answered quickly, “Good, all right.” Lestrade nodded his head, his eyes darting about as if he were thinking.

I wasn’t sure why Lestrade thought that was so strange. People did still share flats, especially in London, where the cost of living was quite high. It was true we didn’t know each other very well, but at least we knew each other, which was one step above how I’d acquired many of my flat mates in the past.

**

I slept well into the next day, almost to noon, in fact, even though I had gone up to my room at half nine the night before. I don’t know what had gotten into me. I still felt tired, but my pride made me slip out of bed and into my dressing gown, and down the stairs.

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, black curls lacing the armrest, legs bent with knees in the air, and his bare feet, as long and graceful as the rest of his body, flat on the seat. His hands were folded in front of his chin, eyes closed, and I wasn’t sure if he was sleeping, or thinking, or meditating. I had only seen him do that with his hands when he was thinking, but that didn’t mean it was the _only_ time he did it.

I tried, as softly as I could, to sneak past him and into the kitchen, but his baritone caught me by surprise. “Good morning John.” I turned and saw that his eyes were still closed. “Erm… tea?” Sherlock hummed in response, which I took to mean yes.

I put on the kettle and looked through the cabinets for the tea, finding it in the first door I opened. A sudden outburst from the sitting room startled me. “Wrong. Wrong! WRONG!”

I dashed to the sitting room and Sherlock was pacing, agitated, waving his arms around as he muttered to himself, “No, there has to be something else… what am I missing?”  
He acted as if he couldn’t even see me, and I felt like I was watching a play close up, right on stage with the actor.

I heard the kettle boil, so I returned to the kitchen, and yelled out “How do you like it?” I heard no response, so I put milk in mine, and left his plain, and returned once again to where the genius was fretting. I put the tea down on the coffee table, and settled my bum into the sofa, the muscles of my body objecting to every movement I made.

“Erm… care to share? I never heard what you found at the zoo yesterday.”

I found myself staring at the graceful form so fluid in motion in front of me. His dark trousers and deep blue shirt were partially hidden by an open dressing gown, which flared out behind him as he paced and swiveled on his heel, and paced some more. The movement was so similar to the bellowing of his coat, which never failed to catch my attention.

Without taking my eyes off the tantalizing man in front of my, I sipped my tea, uncertain whether I should say anything more or not. I recalled how Lestrade and Dr. Hooper waited in silence for several minutes for the genius to share his insight. I put my tea down, and relaxed back into the sofa.

After several moments, he started, “The body was found in the back feeding room of the Reptile House. He was prostrate, on the floor, limbs at awkward angles, but no evidence of a struggle, or break-in. The door was locked, and there were recent packages, shipped from various parts of the world, of live specimens to be introduced to the exhibits. The boxes had been opened, but there were no specimens missing.”

He said it all in one breath, and it took a while for my brain to register everything he said. Just as I had processed it, Sherlock continued. “I’m missing something. I just can’t see it. It doesn’t make sense!”

I obviously had not seen all that he had seen, because I failed to see anything at all in jumble of facts and hours of interrogations. However, I also realized that I had not told him about my encounters the day before at the cafeteria, nor the research that I did with the borrowed laptop. I could not see how it would help, but I was not a consulting detective. So I reported to him, as best I remembered.

Sherlock stopped his pacing, and put his tented fingers in front of his chin. “Thank you John, that was very informative.” He said it so softly and seriously that I thought he was being sarcastic. I was a bit put out, offended by his off hand remark. I thought that that was why he wanted me to assist him. The temperature in the room felt like it fell by several degrees, and I screwed up my face in frustration.

Sherlock must have felt the atmosphere in the room change, and I felt his gaze scrutinizing my expression. “Ahh. I’m often not very effective at expressing myself satisfactorily. I meant that in all sincerity, John. You have filled in some of the blanks. There are definite indications…”

I jerked up my head. “I don’t see any of it.”

“Think John, _think_.”

I started out with the idea that I had put forth the day before. “Erm… Alistair Chambers was killed by Conner Wade… but I don’t know how or why.” I looked at the wonderfully penetrating eyes, hoping for some approval.

“Good… keep going.”

“Right… he used a poison… something he had access to at the zoo…” I saw Sherlock nod in agreement, urging me to continue. “Emm, well… none of the snakes have a venom that kills by causing heart disturbances….”

“Go on.”

“Well, that means it has to be…” I suddenly had an inspiration. My mind started racing as the possibility became more and more likely. No, definitely not a snake. And since he was found in the reptile room with a new shipment of specimens. “Bloody hell! The second death was supposed to look like an accident!”


	6. The Poison

The grin that Sherlock gave me lit up his whole face, softening his feature just a bit. If I thought that the genius was breath taking before, it was nothing to what a sincere full-on smile did for him. Fortunately, I was already sitting down, as I’m certain my knees would have given way. I didn’t want to swoon like an emotional git.

“Well done, John. I knew you’d get there.” My confidence was lifted. “You are probably a step ahead of Lestrade even.” I beamed back at him, somehow sensing that he had given me quite a compliment.

“But, there is one thing that I don’t understand. Well, not just one, but I don’t understand _why_ Chambers was killed?”

Sherlock’s smile vanished, and turned and faced the window. “Nor do I.”

There was silence for a few minutes, then Sherlock began to talk. “This is turning into quite an interesting little problem. I never thought that one of Mummy’s society friends would bring me something so tantalizing. The Poison Dart Frog. Phyllobates terribisis… Ward was quite clever in deflecting your question about the Dart Frog’s toxin. What was it that he said… that _in captivity, they don’t have access to the beetles and ants, the toxins, therefore they are not poisonous._. True of course. But a frog fresh from the wild would be highly toxic. That is why the recent shipment of fresh specimens for the exhibit was critical. One of the terribisis frogs has enough toxin in it to kill ten men.”

“Conner Wade said that he didn’t know Chambers.” I thought out loud.

Sherlock smirked. “He was scared. He didn’t want to admit anything that might incriminate him. And maybe he didn’t know Chambers, before he was… instructed? hired? to kill him… What did you notice that made you think Wades death was staged to look like an accident?”

I smiled, pleased to be able to show off my reasoning ability. I had felt like such a third wheel in the investigation so far that I had wondered why I was invited along for the ride. This gave me the opportunity to prove my worth. “Well, for one thing… the cuts on the palms of his hands. They were fresh. And it was too convenient. Wade knew better than to handle a wild caught dart frog without extreme care. You pointed out the residue on his palms to Molly. He would not have been so careless as to get significant poisonous residue on his hands... It obviously wasn’t a sloppy suicide attempt, which could be another theory as to why he had cuts on his hands over laid with poison residue on his hands. The cuts had no hesitation marks. People, when they cut themselves, are often surprised at the amount of pressure they have to use, and how much it hurts. So the first part of the incision often is ragged, as they stop at the intensity of the pain, and readjust their grip for a deeper cut… So it was a staged accident rather than suicide. But we still don’t know why.”

Sherlock looked at me, a bit surprised. “Oh, we know why Wade killed Chambers.”

“You said you didn’t know why.”

“No, I said I didn’t know why Chambers was killed. There is a difference. Wade killed him because he was paid to. Remember he was telling you about how he wanted to go on holiday to the Galapagos? He was desperate for money. But I don’t know why he was hired to kill Chambers.”

I thought about this for a moment before asking, “Do you know who hired him?”

Sherlock gave me an enigmatic smile. “I have a theory, but no proof, yet… It may be difficult to get proof without knowing the motive. But if we could get a confession out of him… John, how would you like to go to quiz night at the pub with me?”

I was surprised at the abrupt change of topic, but agreed.

“Good. I need you to chat up the girlfriend, Emily Dodd. Get what ever you can out of her. I persuaded her to go to quiz night when I interrogated her. But you seem to be very attractive to women, and I suspect she will be much more willing to talk with you than me. We’ll stay spit up for the night and each get as much information as we can.”

“All right. Just tell me what you want me to do.” Sherlock proceeded to give me very explicit instructions about the evening coming up. Then, he called Lestrade, and “invited” him to the pub as well, with instructions to keep an eye on the suspects, to watch their reactions, and to bring his gun.

**

As my mind was registering everything that had happened over the past few days, and let’s admit it, it was a lot, going from a locum doctor on a regular shift to suddenly living in the flat of a mad genius detective in the middle of a double murder case, I felt the sofa beside me shift. There was the clink of mugs on the coffee table. My eyes went to the form beside me. Bright blue eyes with a hint of concern met mine, then, the corner of his lip went up, which I knew now was his smile. “Ready for tonight?”

I wanted to close my eyes and let those words rush over me and smother me; they felt like such a proposition. And I could finally admit to myself, that that is what I wished they were. I wanted to stop and memorize the sound of the words, the timber of his baritone, and the amazing sensation of chills that went through my body. But I knew that he only meant what we had planned at quiz night.

My eyes never left his, “I’m ready for anything.”

The glint in his eyes shone even brighter, and one eyebrow rose a bit as his smile deepened. “My brave John.” He said. Had he said it? Had he really called me _my_ brave John, or was my mind starting to play tricks on me? My breath hitched, but still I didn’t move my eyes.

I felt my heart start to race, and a stirring and pulsation in my groin, acutely aware that my breaths were coming faster, but trying desperately not to let it show. I was torn between letting Sherlock see the depths of my desire and hiding them, afraid that it would break apart this tenuous but growing friendship, or what ever we had between us.

His eyes became darker, and I realized his pupils were dilating, which was a relief, knowing that mine must already mirror his. And being as incredibly aware of everything around his as he was, able to deduce the most amazing things from the smallest of details, I suddenly realized there was no way to hide what I was feeling. Try as I might, he had already seen through any desperate attempt I was making to keep them hidden.

I saw his eyes momentarily flicker to my lips, and I realized that my tongue was unconsciously running along my lower lip, wetting it. My face started to heat, and I knew that I was feeling the flush that Sherlock was surely seeing. I felt, more than saw, the distance between our faces close. My heart was pounding, my breaths coming fast, and suddenly our lips were barely touching, sharing one breath, but not moving. We moved apart, and I looked at the desire and want in his eyes, and all the blood moved to my groin, making me hard.

I felt his fingers ghost along the back of my neck, sending a bolt of electricity through me, and causing goose flesh all over my body. I reached up, and wrapped my hand behind him, gently embracing his body, and his fingers tightened against my neck. Our lips met once again, less tentative and with more pressure, and we kissed several times, our lips never parting. It was more of a promise, a beginning, an unspoken agreement that we wanted this to be right, not hurried, and that it was worth the wait.

I looked back at those wonderfully deep eyes and saw my desire mirrored. We sat just looking at each other for a moment before I had to take a deep breath. “That was…” I’m not sure what I was even going to say, but the words were out of my mouth. Then I saw the corner of his mouth turn up a bit. “Indeed”, he added.

I reached forward and took a sip of my tea, then leaned back, finding Sherlock’s arm draped around my shoulder. I leaned into his body, and pulled my knees and feet up onto the seat and relaxed. I felt Sherlock relax behind me, as his fingers gently drew circles on my shoulder.

**

Rifling through the refrigerator and cupboards, I noticed that there was not much in the flat to eat. I stood there, staring at the closed doors, hoping for some inspiration. “Sherlock, what do want to eat?”

I didn’t hear him slip into the kitchen, so when I turned around, he was suddenly right in front of me. He was so close I had to raise my chin to look at him. Gentle fluttering butterflies filled my stomach with warmth, as I looked into the brilliant blue eyes. A low baritone voice asked, “Do you like Italian? I know this great little place; it’s only a five minute walk.”

Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of dinner anymore. Our eyes locked, and my heart sped up. I resisted the urge to reach out and encircle my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Instead, I softly cleared my throat. “Yeah… All right.” Somehow I managed to pull myself away and shrug into my jacket.

We entered the cozy candle lit restaurant. The waiter, just inside the door, obviously recognized Sherlock, as he quickly lead us to a table near the door and removed the “reserved” sign positioned on top of it. “Thank you Billy.” Sherlock intoned. I scooted into the bench with my back to the window, and Sherlock sat opposite me.

“Sherlock!” A hulking, burley, bearded man reached a hand forward which Sherlock took and shook heartily. “This man here saved my life.” He told me.

“John, this is Angelo”

I could feel an appraising glance pass over me, and clearly pleased, Angelo continued. “Anything on the menu, Sherlock, free, for you and your date.” Angelo handed us two menus with a flourish, and as he walked away, I thought I heard him utter in a thick accent, “Finally, he brings a date here!”

I looked over at Sherlock, but his expression had not changed, and he appeared not to have heard what Angelo said. I chuckled.

Glancing through the menu and realizing that substantial food hadn’t been a staple of my diet recently, I decided on the spaghetti and meat balls rather than a rich cream sauce selection, and Sherlock selected ragu alla Bolognese. When Angelo returned, we relayed our orders and Angelo smiled, pleased with our choices. Sherlock glanced up and focused on something over my shoulder, out the window.

Looking across the table I appreciated the soft glow of the candle light on Sherlock’s sharp features, accentuating his cheekbones even more than they already were. And for the first time, I really studied the sensuous curves of his distinctive cupid’s bow’s lips, so perfectly shaped and in complete harmony with his regal but not quite austere face. Subtle lines accentuated the outer corners of his eyes signaling some maturity in an otherwise very youthful face. His eyes, satisfied with what he had been watching, glided over and met mine.

To cover my embarrassment at being caught staring at him, I quickly asked, “So, have you been doing this… this consulting thing for long?”

I saw him tap his long, graceful fingers on the table. “About as long as you have been a doctor.” His eyes didn’t waver.

“And, before that… what did you do?”

“Oh I dabbled. Experimented.” There was a glint of playfulness in his eyes.

“So, you don’t like to answer questions about yourself then?” This question caused him to chuckle.

“About as much as I expect you do…. Why did you decide to investigate this with me?”

He surprised me with that. Not only with the particular question, but also with how quickly he turned the tables on me. Why _did_ I decide to follow this mad wonderful genius rather than continue with my shift at the A  & E? I was a very dependable chap by nature. I don’t normally walk away from obligations, especially knowing it would negatively affect the people around me who I’d come to be quite fond of. And I didn’t just walk away from one shift at Barts; I’d walked away from several… how many was still yet to be determined. It certainly wasn’t because I felt a necessary part of this investigation, that I’d provide the one vital clue that would solve it all, in fact, quite the opposite. I felt pretty superfluous, even a detriment at times, stuck in hospital with a stab wound.

And at the time, I didn’t know that I’d fall for this wonderfully enigmatic creature in front of me. Not after I’d been initially insulted, angered and even frustrated by him. And I’d had no way of knowing that I’d get a flat mate and, what, _something more_ out of it. I hadn’t expected that at all, although, I have to admit, I certainly would have accepted without hesitation when he first asked me to join the investigation if I knew where it would possibly lead to.

Why did I decide to investigate with him? Was it the possibility of danger, of something new in what I believed to be a stagnant existence? Had I believed I had a stagnant existance? Isn’t that what I had wanted… some sense of normalcy after all of the uncertainty involved with being shot and discharged, and rehab, therapy, trying to find work and a place to live? Surely I’d been ready for some stability after all of that. Yet I chose once again to pick the harder path. Why?

I looked up at Sherlock, who was smiling at me, eyes sparkling with such a dept of feeling in them that it almost took my breath away. I hesitated for a moment, just to catch my breath. “If I knew why…. I’d tell you. But I honestly don’t know.” Sherlock reached his hand over the table to mine, covered it with his and squeezed. My heart thumped in my chest and I returned the smile.

“I’m just glad that you did.”

**

Since getting information, rather than playing quiz games, was our objective, we got to the pub at half eight. It was not a large establishment; the atmosphere was cozy, with a mixture of square tables in the center, booths along the wall, and a long wooden bar with padded stools across one side. The lighting was dim, but not depressing, with light colored floor and walls which were remarkably clean.

Gathered at a spot midway into the room, around two tables pushed together forming a rectangle and surrounded by chairs, were a few familiar faces, and some new ones. Evan, the nurse from my A & E shift, was the first to spy us. I saw his face flash a look of confusion at Sherlock’s pristine dark suit and maroon shirt, as he was a bit overdressed for a pub, but it was gone in a flash, replaced by a genuine smile and a grand wave of his arm, inviting us over. We sauntered through the crowd, taking in the atmosphere. I wanted nothing more than to announce to the room that I was there with Sherlock, and I hoped that everyone noted that, even though I didn’t say it out loud.

As we had agreed upon earlier in the day, Sherlock and I sat apart. As we got closer to the group, Sherlock whispered to me which face belonged to Emily Dodd. I chose a seat between Emily and another young woman who I had not met, and Sherlock was pulled by Nicole to a chair next to her. There were also two young men, who I learned worked in the cafeteria, named Stanley and Kip. Glancing around, I picked Lestrade out of the crowd, sitting at the bar, his eye in the mirror behind the bar, watching the group surrounding me.

A young woman with an apron wrapped tightly around her hips approached the table with a smile, ready to take drink orders for Sherlock and I. I really wanted to order a pint, but I was on antibiotics for my injury, so I stuck with a lemonade clear. I didn’t hear what Sherlock ordered, but it looked like a G and T, served in a highball glass with a lime wedge. Almost everyone else had a pint in front of them.

Shortly after we sat down, the group was also joined by Robert Mackay, which surprised me, since he didn’t seem like the social type when we interviewed him in the file room, and Gavin Hayes, who waved at me, but had to sit a few chairs away.

The noise level in the pub was remarkably low. I could hear the women on either side of me quite clearly, although voices didn’t seem to carry far, adding to the intimate atmosphere. I introduced myself to Emily, primarily as a locum doctor working at the A & E, which Sherlock suggested may be less intimidating than my role as Sherlock’s associate. She was cute rather than beautiful, with a blond bob and bangs, and a turned up nose. Her blue green eyes were large, drawing attention to themselves, and she knew how to apply her makeup to accentuate this feature. Her child-like voice matched her face.

I offered my sympathies to her, which she demurely accepted, then confided in me that Alistair and her really weren’t that close, having only been dating regularly for a few weeks. Despite what her words said, I could see a trace of a tear forming. She seemed reluctant to talk about Alistair, so I steered the conversation in different directions, hoping she would eventually open up about him.

After about an hour, Emily surprised me. “So you’re a doctor. You know… it’s unusual for doctors to come to quiz night.” Her eyes were full on mine.

“So I’ve been told. But I’ve also been told I’m not your average doctor.”

“Oh, I’d say…” Her bright eyes appraised me up and down, and I almost choked on my drink. What was it about these young kids hitting on me, I thought, thinking back to Conner Wade. I was _almost_ old enough to be this woman’s father, not that I really wanted to admit that. I smiled back at her, trying to hide my awkwardness.

Sherlock passed by me and asked “John, you’re not looking well, are you all right?”

“Fine… yeah I’m okay.” I flashed a smile to him. As he continued walking, I suddenly cried out in pain “AARGH!!” and splinted forward, jamming my left arm into my side. I bobbed back and forth a few times, holding my breath, then finally letting it out.

Everyone at our table, and some from surrounding groups, had their eyes focused on me, most in concern or alarm, but a few in amusement, as if I were telling the punch line of a joke. I tried to wave them off, indicating I was all right, when I clenched my face up in pain, and I doubled over. Before I knew what was happening, Sherlock was at my side.

“John… John! You don’t look all right to me!”

I glared at him. “I’m fine.” I said between gritted teeth. Then I reached down to my left side, lifted my jumper and peeled back the top edge of my plaster. “Oh shite!” My eyes grew wide, and I replaced the plaster, my face suddenly going pale. “Infection, looks bad.”

Sherlock put the back of his hand to my forehead. “High fever…Let's get you to the hospital, now!” A strong baritone instructed. I felt Sherlock at my side, helping me to my feet as I clenched up in pain. Slowly maneuvering through the crowd, we made our way to the front door, Sherlock using his charisma to part the crowd. Once outside, it only took one wave of his hand to signal a cab.

Sherlock had made calls to the hospital explaining what was happening, and making the necessary arrangements. The cab pulled up to the A & E entrance, and a wheelchair appeared next to the rear door. Sherlock gingerly unfolded me from the seat and helped me to the chair. The orderly deftly pushed me in through the automatic doors, down the corridor past the admitting desk, and straight to the lift, where we rose to the fifth floor.

I was set up in a room identical to the one I had just left the day before. I disrobed, and slipped into a hospital gown. A senior nurse came in, introduced herself as Elka, and brought in a cart to set up the IV line and to attach all the appropriate monitors.

After hanging the fluid bag on the IV pole, Elka taped the IV line in place to my arm, wrapped a plaster around it, and started the flow. The pulse oxometry probe was placed on my index finger to measure my pulse and oxygen saturation, and blood pressure cuff around my bicep for automatic readings.

After Elka left, I looked around the room, and found myself alone. It was late on a Sunday night, so the ward was relatively quiet. There were no visitors, and few staff; only those who were necessary to care for the critical through the night.

I took a deep breath and relaxed into my pillow. I knew I may be there for some time, so I’d make the best of it. The rhythmic chiming of the pulse ox was lulling me to sleep, and I found my mind drifting. 

I thought I heard a noise, and I startled awake. The clock on the wall showed it was close on half two. I lay still, listening, for about two minutes, then decided that it must have been my imagination. Then, just as my eyelids started to relax, I heard it again. I opened my eyes, and in front of me, was Gavin Hayes, syringe in hand.


	7. Sherlock Explains All

The man stood stock still as he focused his eyes on mine, now aware that I was awake. He did nothing to hide his syringe in his hand. There was a maniacal look in his eye, as if he were possessed by the devil, ready to do anything. A sneer grew on his lips, and his brows furrowed even further. It was a look I could only describe it as murderous hatred.

“Gavin?” I said, sounding puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh don’t play stupid with me, Doc. I know you’re not. You may not have figured it all out yet, but eventually you would have.” He took a step towards me.

I held up my hand, palm out towards him. “Whoa, wait a minute… just stop.” I was surprised when he did; I hadn’t expected him to. “You can’t do this…”

He laughed, jeering at me. “I can’t? Oh, I think you’ll see that I can. You aren’t exactly strong and healthy now. And no one will notice a small prick in the injection hub of the IV line. That is what they are for, after all.” He continued to sneer.

I saw the logic in his argument. That would make him feel confident. And confidence leads to mistakes. I pressed him. “So is that the Dart Frog poison, that in your hand?”

“I _knew_ you were working things out. I pulled up your browsing history on the lap top that I borrowed for you before I returned it. Quite an extensive amount of research you did…poisonous animals and venoms and toxins. Very impressive, Doc.” He took a deep breath. “And I hoped that you, and _the police_ ” he spit those last two words out, “would blame Conner Wade for both deaths, his _and_ Chambers … but it was quickly apparent that you didn’t think Conner had an accident with the toxin. It would have been a lot better for you if you had believed it.”

Gavin took another step towards my IV line. I started to sit up in the bed, but Gavin waved the syringe at me. “I just have to stick you with this and you will die. It will be much easier, and less painful, to do it my way.” The maniacal grin never left his lips. I eased myself back down, painfully aware that he had the upper hand as long as he could poke me with the poisoned syringe. Maybe if I kept him talking…

“So you paid Conner Wade to kill Chambers, then you killed Wade. Why did you kill Wade?”

Gavin huffed. “Isn’t it obvious? The prat had second thoughts. I needed him to get the poison from the Reptile House. He was the only one with access to that poison; a poison that I thought would be untraceable. And Wade fancied himself in love with me. I didn’t encourage the poof, but I also didn’t dissuade him. He was willing to do it just because I asked him to… But then he started to get cold feet about it. But I needed him. I needed the poison… So when he started to get cold feet, I paid him. You won’t be able to trace it, I used cash, I’m not stupid. I knew he wanted money to travel. It was all too easy to get him to do it for money. Then, second thoughts again. I couldn’t believe it! He threatened to go to the authorities. I couldn’t let that happen!” All of it came out quickly, in a gigantic eruption of confession that he was certain was not going any further than my ears. He took another step towards the IV line.

“But don’t you think they will know that I was killed… even if they don’t see any marks on me? They’ll know you did it.”

Gavin laughed even harder at this. “If they had enough evidence, I’d be arrested already. There is nothing to tie me to the other crimes… nothing!!” And with that, he took the last two steps towards the IV line, slipped the syringe into the injection port, and pushed the plunger home. “That is enough poison to kill several men! As soon as it makes its way through the lines and into your body you won’t feel a thing. Or, if you do, it won’t be for long.” He tossed the syringe into the red sharps container to hide the evidence and turned towards the door.

Suddenly, out of the bathroom exploded DI Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. Two uniformed officers flew in the door from the ward hall, guns drawn, trained on Gavin Hayes.

As if confirming his instability, and insanity, Gavin started to laugh. “You won’t be able to stop the poison! I won! I did it! The doctor is going to be dead!” He doubled over in laughter and the forward officer lunged ahead with a set of handcuffs, slapping them on the murderer, and pulling his arms up behind his back hard.

I pulled the pulse ox probe and blood monitor cuffs off, then ripped the tape holding the plaster off my arm. Lestrade stared at me in disbelief as I calmly completed the task. When the tape was free, I showed him my arm, an _unconnected IV line_ taped to my skin. The IV line from the saline bag with the poison injected into it flowed into a collection bin under my bed. The IV line had never been connected to me. I knew I’d be safe if Gavin injected the poison into the IV line. My big concern was that he would just stick me with the needle directly. That was the whole reason for the IV, to give him an easy (but completely safe) way of “killing me”.

Lestrade starting putting it all together. “Christ, John, are you telling me that you aren’t sick? You don’t really have an infection from your stab wound? That this is all a set-up?” He wiped his face with the palm of his hand. I nodded.

“I think, Detective Inspector, that we have a lot to catch you up on. Why don’t we head to Baker Street where we can be more comfortable and we’ll give you the details.” Sherlock apparently had not thought it was important to let Lestrade in on the plan before hand.

**

“So let me get this straight…” We were back in the sitting room of 221 B Baker Street, Sherlock and I sitting side by side on the sofa, and Lestrade pacing in front of us. “You and John came up with this plan to trap the killer… And you didn’t tell me about it!?” 

Sherlock had known Lestrade a lot longer than I had, so I kept quiet. Sherlock had come up with the plan, and he would know how best to explain it to Lestrade. After a minute of silence, Lestrade seemed to calm a bit, and he sat down in one of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace, turning it to face the two of us. He shook his head, took in a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “Okay… when did you first suspect Gavin Hayes?”

Sherlock looked confused. “Right from the beginning; he was on our initial suspect list.”

Lestrade threw up his hands. “Don’t be difficult, Sherlock. When did you _seriously_ think that Hayes was our man?”

“Right from the beginning.” Lestrade and I looked at each other in disbelief. Sherlock saw our expressions, and sighed. “Didn’t you find it odd that Wade’s and Hayes’ statements contradicted each other? Gavin Hayes said very simply that he didn’t know Conner Wade, that he no longer even introduced himself to new security men because they don’t last long at Barts…. Yet, Wade very clearly called Hayes a friend. And Wade referenced several times someone at Barts that he knew, someone that got him the job in Security that used to work at the zoo. It was simplicity itself to look up Hayes’ employment history and note that he worked at the zoo for a few months about a year ago in the security department, alongside Wade… By the way… you likely will not be able to prove anything… but it is interesting that Hayes’ Aunt and Uncle died during the time that he worked security at the zoo… of what was called a heart attack and a broken heart… and that he inherited a significant amount of money from them, if his Rolex watch is any indication.”

I had heard all the same information from the same suspects, but I had not put those points together. “Amazing!” It just slipped out. I didn’t mean to say it out loud. Sherlock looked at me, and the corner of his lip twitched.

“Then there was the cinder block that fell from the roof.”

“The what!” Lestrade shouted.

“Do keep up Lestrade. The cinder block. Fell from the roof after John and I completed the interviews on Thursday, right after we spoke to Hayes. But the damning part of it was that it came from _the roof_. Don’t you see?”

Lestrade and I both shook our heads.

“At the top of the stairs, the roof access door, it’s locked. Even John’s key fob, _a doctor’s_ key fob, wouldn’t work in it. But _Gavin Hayes’_ key fob would. He told you John, when he said he could get into any door in Barts except for the pharmacy.” I groaned as I remembered the conversation. Something else that I missed.

“But why?” I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. It is the question that had been foremost in my mind the entire case. I looked over at Lestrade, and he was watching Sherlock with rapt attention.

“That was not apparent at first… Of course he killed Wade because Wade was going to give him up. What was less clear was why he had Chambers killed. But that became crystal clear last night, at the pub.”

When Sherlock paused, Lestrade and I looked at each other. I lifted one shoulder and let it fall. Once again, I missed what Sherlock saw so easily.

“Care to share?” Lestrade jabbed, clearly irritated.

“John was talking with Emily Dodd, Chamber’s girlfriend. Miss Dodd was a bit flirtatious. Gavin Hayes was looking at John with the most murderous of eyes. Jealousy. Simple jealousy. He wanted Ms. Dodd for himself. Wanted bad enough that he would kill for it.”

“So you planned to trap Hayes at the pub quiz, using John as the bait?”

“Exactly, but he was never in any real danger.”

“Sherlock! How can you say that?” Lestrade was besides himself.

“Simple. We gave him an apparently easy way to kill, using an IV line. Unfortunately for him, the IV line wasn’t attached to John.” Sherlock smirked.

“But what if he would have gone for John with the syringe?”

“John is a soldier. He can defend himself.”

Lestrade wiped his face with his hand, and took a deep breath. “So, all of that at the pub, about John getting sick, the incision, the fever, all a fake?”

Finally I could pipe up and say something. “I just waited for his signal, which was Sherlock telling me that I didn’t look good, and I played the part of the sick doctor. Sherlock had already consulted with the administration of the hospital, let them know what we were up to, and they cooperated fully. We bypassed admitting and came straight up. One of the senior nurses, one that could be trusted fully, was also in on it. Good old Elka. She is the one who taped the line to my arm without inserting a catheter. No one would ever think to confirm an IV catheter was actually inserted before using the line for murder. And, well, you were hidden in the bathroom with Sherlock, so I really wasn’t in much danger. Why didn’t you ask him to explain then?”

“I _did_ ask, but Sherlock refused to answer. Said we had to keep quiet so we didn’t scare the murderer away… He always has had a flair for the dramatic” Lestrade explained peevishly.

“So now what?” I asked.

“Well, we put together a case for murder times two, and one for attempted murder against you. It should be easy to confirm the poison in the IV line, and we can collect the syringe out of the sharps container, and it will have his fingerprints on it. Plus, five people heard him confess. Should be open and shut.” Lestrade looked satisfied.

“What about the aunt and uncle?”

Lestrade considered. “Like Sherlock said, it would be difficult to prove. But it won’t matter. Hayes will never be on the streets again.”

**

I came out of the loo, after just having changed the plaster on my incision, and tugged my jumper down with both hands. The incision had been healing well, but it still tickled and itched a bit, which is why I kept a plaster on it. It kept me from inadvertently scratching at it. I realized, with some trepidation, that soon I’d be returning to my shift at the hospital. “Sher-“ I started to call, but was interrupted by the man himself, suddenly right in front of me, just an inch separating us.

“Emm, well, I was going to ask you if you wanted some tea…”

“But you’ve deduced that I want something else. I’ll make you into a consulting detective yet…” His voice was playful, but his eyes were full of want, hunger and desire.

I reached up and wrapped by arms around his neck, leaning against him, prompting him to wrap his arms around me, enclosing me, making me feel safe and a part of him. I could feel his heart beating against mine. I looked up, examining his wanton eyes, the depth of fire and emotion apparent with the disappearance of his irises, obscured by his pupils. God, those eyes… I must have moaned out loud.

Suddenly his lips were pressed against mine with confidence, and he kissed me hard. My hand went to the back of his head to keep his close. I felt his tongue teasing at my lips, gently pressing, seeking. I still couldn’t believe that I was allowed to kiss Sherlock, that outrageously brilliant, and undeniably gorgeous mad man. I parted my lips, inviting his tongue in, and our tongues greeted each other, twinned around each other before he explored further into my mouth, sending my heart rate soaring as I reveled in the quivers he was sending through my body.

The sensation caused the blood to go south, and I groaned again and pressed forward with my hips, and he had to take half a step backwards to stop from falling backwards. He chuckled as our lips parted, and took my hand in his, leading me to the sofa. 

I leaned into his grasp as I lowered myself onto the seat, my abdomen still not as strong as I was used to it being, but I no longer grimaced or groaned when moving. Sherlock loomed over me, his focused and sensuous smile piqued my desire, and my breaths came faster. I gently pulled on his hand, still in mine, in invitation.

Then, in a complete surprise, I saw his brow furrow, and I felt his hand pull back slightly. I searched his eyes, but they told me nothing. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He was still focused on me, his eyes piercing into mine, as if he were trying to read me. He hesitated a moment, licked his lips, and took a deep breath, as if he were going to start a difficult conversation. “John…” He exhaled and looked away, struggling to find a way to express himself. His eyes once again focused on mine. “John, I don’t want you to go…”

What? I wasn’t going anywhere. What was he on about? Was it because… “Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to finish moving my things here soon, it’s just that, the past couple of weeks have been-“

My explanation was cut short. “No John, you misunderstand… I didn’t mean… What I meant was that I don’t want you to go back to Barts.”

“Sherlock, it is safe there now, we got the killer, there’s no more danger. Besides, you said I could take care of myself.”

Sherlock sighed heavily at that. My hand was still in his, and I felt his frustration as he pumped his hands up and down gently in front of himself as he fought to find the words that were escaping him. He once again looked away, down at the floor, before gathering his thoughts and trying again. “I’m doing this quite badly, I’m afraid. What I mean is that I don’t want you to return to work. I want you to stay here with me. We can work together. You can be my assistant, like we have been doing… like we did to solve the case.” His eyes looked up hopefully at me.

“What?... You mean not return as a doctor?... Sherlock… I can’t do that… I need to work… how am I going to pay my part of the rent otherwise?… I really have enjoyed the past couple of weeks, don’t get me wrong…”

Sherlock sat down next to me, pulling my hands towards him, up to his mouth, and he kissed my knuckles softly. “John, you don’t need to work. We can make enough with my business-“

“Sherlock, stop… I don’t want to feel like a kept man.” I suddenly giggled, surprised that that term came out of my mouth. Really John, _a kept man_? Sherlock looked heartbroken. “I’m not saying no forever… it’s just that… well, with everything that has happened in the past couple of weeks… it’s a lot to take in at once… let me get used to things first… I want to continue to help with your cases when I can… but I need some consistency in my life right now… Why don’t we have this conversations again in a couple of months… hell, you’ll probably be bored with me by then and glad that we didn’t rush into things.”

Sherlock managed to look at me after keeping his eyes on my hands while I spoke. “No, John Watson, I’ll never get bored of you.” He kissed my hands again. “We can take it slow. As slow as you need John. I’ll wait for you.” He pulled my forward by my hands and kissed me, closed mouth, on the lips.

He pulled back, hesitancy foremost in his eyes, so I dropped his hands, leaned in, and wrapped one hand around his neck, pulling him forward. I touched my lips to his, softly at first, tickling his lips with my tongue. When he did not react, I nipped at his lower lip, and he pulled back slightly before pushing into my mouth with more urgency. I felt his tongue probing my lips, and I parted them slightly, inviting him in. 

I felt his arms around my waist, gently wandering along my back and shoulders, reveling in the rush of endorphins that his touch sent through me. The feeling of love and desire, of security, of oneness, started to creep into my heart, and I knew it was just the start. Deep inside I knew that this was just the beginning, the beginning of a lifetime together, that Sherlock would wait, and that, eventually, I’d unable to resist Sherlock, unable to say no to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been reading along and giving feedback! It's been a blast to write this and hear what you think. Special thanks to Constance_Truggle, Mich, and Socalrose for their encouragement.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Poison in the Poke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1717415) by [sevenpercent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent)




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